Time, Please (A monologue)

Time, Please.

 

Annie – a barmaid at The George; a quaint, ancient, country pub. It’s 5pm, opening time. She wipes the counter, sorts glasses, lights numerous candles in wine bottles, puts a log on the fire. Satisfied, she rings the bell three times.

Her tone is casual, warm, occasionally acerbic.

 

Time, please. That’s what we want isn’t it? A breather. A tranquil, regular oasis with people who know us – well, the happier, slightly-well-oiled versions of ourselves. I love The George when I’m alone in here. It’s the kind of cosy hostelry that looks as if it might fall down if you sneeze, with outside loos, knackered furniture and pints beer-lovers swoon for.

 Listen to the silence. There’s 250 years of ghostly conversations between these lime-plastered walls, stuffed with straw - you see it in places. A sacred public house with its secular congregation of longings, secrets, sorrows and laughter. It sends a shiver down my spine.

She stokes the fire, sighs.

People love to sweat in here now while they moan about the heat outside in summer. Well, let’s get this show on the road.

Annie stands, checks her hair in a dusty mirror, puts on lipstick, unbolts the door.

Brrrr, a freezing finale to a no longer-dry-January. When the days get longer, the cold gets stronger and abstinence is finally ditched.

She busies herself at the bar, looks up.

It’s 95 per cent men at this hour. Post-work, before pitching into families or loneliness. Or both. They exhale through the door into this warm fug of beer, candles and woodsmoke. Worries dissolve, lips’ part, as if in prayer and I have their particular pint ready. The smiling relief, as one hand grasps the glass, the other rootles for card or cash.

‘Ahhh,’ they say at that first blissful sip, unfurling in this glimmery sanctum minus TV or mobile-signal. They shed their professions by the crackling fire as candles resettle and time suspends.

I play my little role in this asylum, as a woman of a certain age, who no longer takes any crap. I’m part of the historical décor, listening to revelations of drinkers’ lives.

Annie winks.

There’s kindness here. I know what these men do to pay their hard-working way, who they live with, or don’t, their failures, illnesses. I’m a specialist in man-flu but their dread of seeing a doctor is the same as a dog being dragged to a vet’s. Their habits can leave a lot to be desired. This week, I discovered how often single blokes change bedsheets. Some must resemble the Turin Shroud.

Take Dave, here he comes, like clockwork (she pours his pint). Lonely and longing for a woman. Changes his sheets every three weeks. Better than any contraceptive device.

‘Hi Dave, Slack-ma-Girdle?’ (Annie smiles, slides over his pint.)  He’s a carpenter - mid-50’s – possibly younger…. big hands, red fingers like Cumberland sausages, covered in scars. Dave braces his ox-of-a-back against the wall to half-face the door. Expectant like. His wife of 20 years ran off with a woman. He’s still in denial two years later.

‘Annie’, he asks me, ‘what do women want?’ As if I have a clue. Possibly not a man who clings to the bar like a sinking ship but it’s a chicken and egg conundrum. If he had someone to hold, to go home to, who knows. For now, Dave knocks back the NHS guidelines for weekly drinking but appears to have the genes of a cockroach, loving pork scratchings with his flat cider and peering into it like a clairvoyant with a glass ball. Dave goes quiet after a bit of bluster about his singledom. I know to let him be.

Ahh, here’s the early shift filing in. Bit of hesitation at the hearth, like horses bridling at the starting line. Each trying not to buy the first round. Oooh…. Jack’s been edged to the front. The chimney sweep gives in with a winning smile. He’s a gentle face, with smudges of coal-dust. He’s much in demand with brides on their wedding day: for good luck.

‘Easy money, Annie, that’s what I like,’ he says standing his round.

Hard on his steel-toed boots comes Roger, the baseball-capped rat-catcher. Tall and bootlace-thin with sharp, darting, near-black eyes. His claim to infamy is he once shot a rat in a fridge. Nobody knows how it broke in and shut the door for that final chunk of Cheddar.

Close behind, strides gob-almighty Jimmy; a market meat-trader in cowboy heels.  He understands the way of all flesh as does the eloquent criminal barrister I overheard say ‘blood spatter on the ceiling’ and spilt his pint. Jimmy wears a tweed flat-cap and floral shirt bursting at the seams around his barrel of a belly. He’ll rattle on about bargain Sir Loin steak, pressing his cheap cuts on anyone he corners. Most see him coming and give him a wide berth.

 His Lordship saunters in next, nodding to all, like the gentleman he is. He owns a thousand acres hereabouts - a veritable living larder of wheat, pheasants, lamb and beef. Sir Peter’s checked shirt’s buttoned haphazardly, half-untucked from worn corduroys. He’s a beamy, ruddy face with bright grey eyes and electrified white hair that wafts in random directions. He no longer publicly calls me the ‘mature barmaid,’ after I pointed out he was older than me and my age was way higher than his IQ.

I pour their habitual pints in preferred glasses.  Mens’ time here is a finely-tuned affair - between the first swallow and being home-for-supper before it gets given-to-the-dog. The ones lingering past 8pm are already in the doghouse or home alone. Their in-vino-veritas conversations, are quickly forgotten and forgiven. Men would like to hold a grudge, if only they could remember. Unlike their wives.

Sir Peter counts out his pennies into my hand and asks why I work here? Grouse feathers float from gilet to flagstone floor.

I’m a part-time tax inspector, I tell him, letting that sink in, then add I’m supporting my daughter at university, so she won’t have to serve cheap beer to landed gentry. He roars, happy as a clam and, like always, gives the exact money.

A whip-smart young woman owns The George and a lot of bright ones serve here. Two veterinary students, an anthropologist doing a PhD, single-mum with a toddler son, who cleans while studying psychology and a therapist who could be a comedian. She told Sir Peter she was ‘jealous of all the people who’d never met him’. He loved it.

There’s a lull. No-one interrupts. They sip, warm backs at the fire, another log is added. Men tend the winter hearth with all the proprietary of a summer barbecue. Makes life easy for me. Someone mentions the budget and their liquified minds flood at the idea of beer prices getting a hammering. Which reminds me.

Annie grabs a mallet, knocks a spile in the top of a barrel. Releases air, picks up a tap, hammers it in. Beer spurts.

Smells of old socks. Men and fruit-flies adore it. The first cling to the bar, the latter to fly tape, wriggling their last. A sooty mouse scurries between barrels. I’ll not mention that to trigger-happy Roger and hope my humane trap gets it before a dog does.

Dogs are my favourite waggy customers. They put paws and jaws on the bar so I can slip them biscuits and tickle their heads. Once, a bloke bought in two cats - on a shared harness. He insisted they loved the pub. Their bulging eyes said otherwise. A collie bounded up and the felines fled, yowling, tethered together and out, closely followed by the owner into the dark woods.

A young couple enter, gin for her, lager for him, kissing and cooing on the window seat. They ask for a menu. We don’t serve evening food, apart from the Somerset Tapas of a pickled egg in salt and vinegar crisps. Instead, they make a feast of each other before leaving to feed elsewhere. Two friends, in their 80s, slip into the cushioned space. The coffin-dodgers have met every Tuesday for thirty years. Sipping Butcombe, they reminisce how they’ve swapped talking about women and work, to medication and funerals. I watch their animated, smiling faces, illuminated by fire and candles. They warm the cockles of my brooding heart.

A 30-something woman arrives, asks for half-a-diet coke, no ice or lemon. Tall, slender, in a brown jumper, beige skirt, fawn shoes. I’ve seen more colour in bleach, barring her scarlet back-pack. I worry she’s an environmental inspector. Deep cleaning remains to-do at the top of the Triage List. She heads to a tucked-away corner. Her anxious face looks up every time the door opens.

In waltzes Animal, an engineer, usually accompanied by Tackle, his electrician mate. Their nicknames are a mystery, even to them. Animal, has a style that suggests he dresses in the pitch-dark from a random pile on the floor. Hands usually streaked with oil, hair with grease and trousers in grime. He is unrecognisable. Clean clothes, washed and brushed hair. Grimy paws scrubbed almost white, likewise his teeth.

Regulars make room at the bar, querying funeral, wedding or solicitor?

He ignores them and whispers, ‘Annie, have you seen a woman with a red bag. She’s, my date.’

I pour his Guiness. He’s a moron for bringing anyone here so soon, ‘She’s in The Corner.’ He glances. I see she’s possibly not The One because on grasping his pint, he turns and heads for the lower bar.

 ‘Not on your life,’ I order, ‘man-up because she’s had to.’ He trudges to her and everyone watches. She’s a good six inches taller than him. They shake hands. My barflies are wide-eyed.

‘Stop gawking! You all have delusions of adequacy,’ I tell them. They behave mostly and steer their conversation to the male safety of sport, cars, motorbikes or how to drive from Land’s End to John O’Groats via B-roads. It’s 100 per cent Valium for my ears.

First dates are riveting. They fidget with beer mats like life preservers. I play a guessing game—will they, won’t they? It’s more miss than hit. Once in a while, I see that magical spark. I suspect not for Animal tonight. He’ll be glad to get his clean kit off.

Then He arrives. My stomach turns.  Joe is non-descript. Glasses, his own hair, and teeth. Always a bonus. You’d miss him in a crowd. Just like me. He’s not tall but I’m short. He’s grown on me, with bright blue eyes and a disarming smile. He smells of Pear’s soap and always asks ‘How are you?’ A rarity. Makes me feel I’m bathed in a warm spotlight. Or another hot flush. When I’m not run off my feet, he enquires about My Life. I breeze over that. He says ‘May I please,’ when he orders. Offers me one. Adds ‘thank you’ and puts change in the charity box. He listens to anyone; calmly, kindly. His wife died a year ago. She just saw their first grandson born.

He says: ‘This place saved my sanity and you have too.’ God knows why I responded with: ‘I’ve made a Shepherd’s Pie; would you like some?’ Meaning, I’d bring it in a plastic box. My face sizzles. He takes note of the colour. Time stands still. Then he adds.

‘That’s very kind of you. Do you like red wine?

Before I explain that it’s unromantic meals on wheels, via The George, the door bangs open as if a tornado’s barrelling through. A dozen teenagers target me, all talking at once. Girls with straightened, shiny hair, glowing skin and tiny tops (despite it being January) asking for vodka and coke; the boys, gangly, not quite grown into their bodies, smell of aftershave and cannabis. They want pints. I check ages. They pay individually. It takes forever. The hormonal whirlwind departs outside to vape.

I glance at Joe. He smiles. Be careful, I think. There are actual butterflies in my stomach for the first time since… I can’t remember….

Animal’s blind date departs, coke unfinished, a look of relief washed over her face. He returns to the fold like a man spared execution.

‘Remind me’, Animal says, ‘if I think about doing this again.’ He knocks back his Guiness. Tackle has arrived, witnessed the woman’s departure and says:

‘Remember the woman, with the auburn hair, the one who was a chef? Gorgeous but she wanted me to go to church with her.’  Tackle sighed: ‘Such a pity, because she was the best cook I ever shagged.’ The others commiserate and drink. Booze might be bad for you, and there’s a fine line frequently crossed but The George offers companionship in a lonely world.

The Frisby players arrive. Three gentle grown men toss a bit of plastic in the icy dark because it’s an excuse to be in The George and have a laugh. They’re followed by panting, middle-aged footballers and cyclists in sweaty Spandex: both groups spattered in mud, scarlet-faced and safe in the knowledge that whatever calories exercise has consumed will be counter-balanced by pints and ham rolls with pickle.

Faces come and go, stories flow. Time slows and I wonder why women never seem to come regularly?

‘Annie,’ says Dave, smiling, hand out for another Slack-ma-Girdle, pork-scratchings stuck to his teeth, ‘they already have friends to talk to.’

Joe discreetly passes me a note with his number and adds, if, after Shepherd’s Pie, I’d go for a walk? There’s no ‘X’. I like that. Straightforward. Perhaps there’s still time for me.

Annie rings the bell calls:

Last Orders

She tidies, wipes the counter, blows out candles, picks up bar towels etc, calls:

Time, Please.

Annie shuts the door. Settles by the fire, stokes it.

Listen…… Come see for yourself.

She smiles. Blows out the last candle.