Rod's Part 1

July 1987

Mike had been all agog when Henry described the White Horseman. On the Saturday of their weekend break in Faversham, he’d insisted on dragging Julie out to Ruddenfield, not that she’d minded. It was a lovely walk on the field paths, then over the level crossing on the minor road near Reedford.

“Oooh look at that amazing catslide roof!” she exclaimed, pointing to the sweeping expanse of red tiling about a mile away.

“That’s the place, I think. Henry mentioned the roof. You know, he said that when you order your pint…”

“Yes, Mike, you’ve told me a dozen times. Rod goes down the stairs into the cellar with a tray to get it. There’s no pumps or anything - like going back fifty years…Mike, I swear, you’re almost literally frothing at the mouth! C’mon, must be opening time…”

 

They picked their way carefully through the extensive kitchen garden and collection of assorted sheds and outhouses at the back of the White Horseman – peas and broad beans growing up sticks, potatoes, carrots, leeks…Butterflies danced in the warm air above the herbiage, fluttering to and fro, bees buzzed, almost the loudest sound apart from the distant, ringing clatter of an electric train.

“I say, Mike. You don’t think the guy grows his own grain and hops and stuff, makes his own beer?”

“Doubt it; brewery would probably have something to say about it….”

“Might be doing it on the QT?”

"Can’t see anything like barley – or hops. Pretty much everything else you can think of, though. Guess he’d be able to sit out the nuclear holocaust, with this lot  in his garden.”

Julie gently pushed open the door. “Wow! Just WOW! Henry wasn’t wrong, was he?”

Plain yellow walls, brown skirting boards and doorframes, brown lino. Simple wooden stools, chairs and benches. Old, worn, but spotlessly clean and polished. Gleaming.

The servery was festooned with an enormous wreath of dried hop-plants, crisp and brown-yellow stretching across the top.

The walls were almost bare, apart from a picture in the parlour of a fisherman entitled ‘Safe ashore’.

“My God – it IS a time-warp” said Mike.

 

The landlord was deep in conversation with his sole customer, a thickset man in blue work trousers and a flat cap.

“See you’ve got your peasticks in, Rod. Reckon ah might do the same tomorrow, if the weather’s koind…”

“Oh yes. Looks to be set fair…”

He looked up, noticing the new arrivals.

“Pint of bitter please and…Julie?”

“Same for me.”

“I’ll have another when you’re down there, Rod…”

Rod grasped a red tin tray and tottered uncertainly down the steps into the cellar. Mike and Julie exchanged glances.

“Decent bit of weather, we’re ‘avin…’ope it lasts,” said Flat Cap.

“Yes, it’s lovely,” said Julie.

“Amazing place, this,” ventured Mike. “My mate Henry told me all about it…”

“Oh, aye. Well, I s’pose it does, dunnit? Not much choice down here in Ruddenfield, anyways…”

“It’s a bit of a dead-end, here. I mean, no through traffic…not on the way to anywhere.”

“Oh, aye...”

Rod reappeared, bearing three pints of Fremlins in his trembling hands. A good part of the contents were already splashed into the tray. Mike and Julie exchanged another glance. They took their pints and sat on the bench under the fisherman picture, leaving Rod and the local to continue their conversation.

 

“Gosh! This place is like, like…I mean Henry wasn’t wrong, was he? It really is like…going back in time. How do you guys find out about these places?”

“Oh, word of mouth, mostly…the grapevine. Those Camra real ale people publish guides. Sometimes you can get an idea from them.”

“Know any other pubs like this?”

“Well, there’s Doris’s – the Red Lion, down Snargate way, on the Romney marshes. Elsie’s, near Cowden in Kent. I went there with Steve; it was great, nothing’s changed since 1950, I should think. But there was a very nasty outbreak of Morris-dancing when we were there…”

“I thought you’d be into Morris dancing? All that old, traditional stuff?”

“Dunno. Something a bit creepy about grown men with bells on their ankles. And these days they’re all accountants or computer programmers pretending to be traditional countrymen.”

“Any interesting ones back in London?”

“Oh yes, some amazing ones. There’s Ye Olde Mitre, Hatton Garden way. Down a little passage – nobody knows it’s there. The Cheshire Cheese; Dr Johnson’s old hangout. But, yeah,  it’s hard to find this stuff out. …Pity there isn’t a way of sending messages to each other by computer…”

“You know, Trisha at work says they can do that now.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

“Sort of down the phone lines. The computers can talk to each other…”

“Nah! That couldn’t work. I mean, how would they get a word in edgeways when my Gran’s going on to Mum about how she’s not looking after Dad, and how she’s not feeding him properly, he doesn’t have enough clothes…”

“By the way, is it true what Marie told me, that your Gran posts clothes for your Dad to your Mum?”

“Yeah! I swear, it’s true. Every six months or so, this brown paper parcel, all tied up with string, turns up from Hull at our house with socks, underpants, trousers, pullovers even…”

“Don’t they have clothes shops in North Wales?”

“They do! I mean, not Bond Street, but there’s a Marks and Sparks in Llandudno.”

“Doesn’t that sort of…piss your Mum off a bit? Sort of, Gran’s saying, she’s neglecting your Dad?”

“You know, I think it does. But, she can’t really say anything. I mean, she doesn’t want to seem ungrateful..”

“Families, eh?”

“Did your folks say anything about me after last weekend?”

“They like you. They think you’re a bit weird…well, they think your hobbies are weird. Like the old pubs…And they’re a bit funny about drinking, the Methodist thing…”

“They think I’m leading the Minister’s daughter astray?”

“Oh, I think they’re OK about it. It’s not as if we go rolling about in the gutter…”

“The afternoon is still young…”

 

 “This is a good place to come if you want to cut down on your drinking,” whispered Julie in Mike’s ear, bearing three more pints on his tray, each of them little more than three quarters full; Rod’s hands trembled continually. “But it’s brill, even so.”

They retired to the bench under the picture.

“You know, who would like this place?” Julie continued. “My mate Natasha.”

“The Cannock from Pillock?”

“Don’t be rude. She’s lovely – likes her beer. The other day, she was saying to me: “I were poi-oiyed…”

The blue-overalled guy’s head swivelled round, glaring.

“Eh, Julie, shall we sit outdoors for a bit? It’s lovely and warm…”

 

“Julie - that was a truly appalling attempt at a Brummie accent. He thought you were taking the piss out of Kentish folk…”

“No! Really? Omigod…that’s SO embarrassing…”

“Don’t worry – he shouldn’t be so sensitive. It’s great out here too…”

To be continued in Rod's Part 2

Rod's - Part 2 | ABCtales