Rod's Part 3 of 3

Saturday morning found Mike and Julie on the train from Charing Cross to Kent at 10am. “There must be a logical explanation,” said Julie. “I mean, it’s not as if he could walk through walls.”

“I thought you lot did believe in that sort of thing?”

“Only if you’re the Holy Ghost. I don’t think Rod was…”

“Pretty heavenly pint of Fremlins though…”

 

They walked through the orchards and hop gardens. The weather was still warm, a faint glow of sun behind the thin, white cloud. The vast red tiled expanse of the White Horseman’s roof came into view. It was just after noon.

 

“Hello! Anyone at home!” called Mike, pushing open the back door.

Silence. The pub was deserted, but there was a neatly-folded copy of the Daily Express on the counter. Last Saturday’s, Mike noted. Not that that necessarily proved anything…

Julie sat under the fisherman picture. “Mine’s a pint – if anyone turns up.”

“You don’t think…you don’t think it’s been like this since Saturday? I mean, people might wander in, find that he’s not there and wander out again. Perhaps nobody realises he’s disappeared?”

“Possible, I suppose. But someone would realise after a week, surely; they would have raised the alarm. And someone would have closed and locked the door. It wouldn’t have just been left like this.”

“S’pose so.”

 

Half an hour passed. Nobody came.

Then; “Oh look, someone’s coming up the back path!”

 

The newcomer was tall, gaunt, all acute angles. Trousers, a couple of inches too short, held up by a length of string. “’Ow do!”

“Afternoon. I’m afraid, Rod’s not around. We’ve been here over half an hour, waiting…”

“Ah, if he baint ’ere, e woon’t mind me if I sarve me’seln. Yootoo wan’ toopants yerseln?”

Julie nodded, hesitantly.

The newcomer grabbed the tin tray and stumped down the stairs. They heard a few bangs and thumps. Presently he reappeared, bearing three brimming pint glasses.

“Bahb, he beant soggod this lass few de-arn. He’ll not minnus us takken a few foor oorseln…”

“Yes, No. Yes…” 

Julie and Mike exchanged glances. Presently, the newcomer slammed his empty glass down on the counter. “Well, naw, I bearn arf fennow, oi beebock presently, this e-e-een…” 

He strode out, banging the door behind him.

“Mike - Could you understand a single word he said?”
”No, not really. But I gather some self-service arrangement is in place here. Where should we leave our money? Under the counter?”

“S’pose so. Why don’t you leave a couple of extra quid – then we could have a couple more pints before we go?”

“Yeah, why not.”

Mike took the tray and went downstairs. The cellar was as he remembered it; same single bulb, the few barrels on their stillages. As he let the first pint trickle out of the barrel, he slapped his hands on the whitewashed walls. Nothing hollow, no trapdoors flying open. He looked down at the floor, stamped up and down; his feet met solid stone.

 

“You beating a tattoo down there?” asked Julie. “I was beginning to think you were fighting off the demon of Rod’s cellar.”

“It’s baffling. There is definitely no way in or out from there, except the stairs. What on earth has happened to him? Do you think the locals have kidnapped him? Or done away with him? And now they’re helping themselves to the beer in his cellar?”

“Wouldn’t put it past that last guy. But that doesn’t answer the question – how did he disappear down those stairs and not come back? I mean, even if they had done away with him, you’d have seen him when you went down there last Saturday?”

“Should we tell someone? The Police?”

“And say what? A pub landlord went down into his cellar…and disappeared? I mean, I’ve heard of Missing Person’s reports, but not…disappeared persons. We’d get laughed out of the station…”

 

“Well, it’s three o’clock, nearly. Do we need to respect closing time, or shall we help ourselves again? Leaving the money under the counter, of course…”

“Go for it!”

 

They’d finished their pints and were shuffling around for their belongings. “There’s a train from Reedford in 45 minutes – should make it,” said Mike.

“Aye, aye, Cap’n!”

The front door creaked open, almost apologetically.

“ROD! What on earth happened to you last Saturday! You just…disappeared! We were looking for you all over!”

“Were you? Oh, well, sorry about that…Oh yes, you’d ordered a couple of pints…”

“And you went down the cellar and never came back. You know, we actually went down there to look for you but…there was nobody there. Like you were a ghost…”

“A ghost? Well, not really. You see, when I was down there … I had a bit of a funny turn. I thought, I’d better get myself up those stairs, in case I passed out, like…”

“But we didn’t see you come back up!”

“You were looking out the window at something…I just had to get myself out in the air…so I went out the other door and sat in the lane for a while, tryin’ to get my breath back…”

“Ah! But you didn’t come back…”

“No! You see, I thought…well, I’d had this bit of a funny turn, as I said. I thought, how much longer can I keep goin’ up and down those darned steps?…And then, then, well, I got to thinking, I really will have to think about givin’ up this old place…So I thought, why not just go and have a look around, just in case it’s the las’ time I see it. I walked up and down the lane, almost like, I was sayin’ goodbye …”

“You’ve lived all your life here, pretty much?” said Julie.

“Yeh, pretty much. I mean, I weren’t born here, but it’s the only place I can remember. But…I’m so sorry, I just left you waiting…”

“That’s no problem – we sorted ourselves out. You know, some of the locals have been helping themselves from the cellar. So did we – but we left the money behind the counter…”

“That’s fine. Won’t be needing money where I’m going.”

 

 

September 1987

The White Horseman’s last day of opening. Mike had made a special trip from London; Julie couldn’t come, she was meeting her parents in Town. The place was packed out; the local Camra people had set up a couple of barrels in the front garden to cope with the demand. For once in his life, Rod didn’t have to go up and the stairs to serve his customers.

The weather was grey; spits and spots of rain peppered the back yard where beer enthusiasts had come from all over the country for the last day. For possibly the first time in its life, the back yard of the White Horseman wasn’t an oasis of quiet.

There was even a TV crew; the demise of the pub featured on that evening’s local news.

Rod was going into a care home. Running up and down the cellar stairs, keeping the place polished and spick and span, humping the barrels up and down the stairs; it had all got a bit too much. The rigours of the White Horseman would have taxed a much young, fit landlord, and Rod was neither.

Mike sought him out; he’d retreated behind his counter, letting the Camra people get on with serving beer from their barrels in the garden.

“Well, thank you for some great times in your wonderful pub. And here’s wishing you a long and happy retirement.”

“Well, that depends on the Big Feller up there, doesn’t it?”

“Any idea what will happen to this place.”

“Estate agent reckons it’ll make a very desirable residence.”

“So it’ll be turned into a house?”

“It was a house before it became a pub. Full circle, I s’pose…”