The Guards

Karma

Walking down College Road, I thought I probably should have said something kinder. Years ago I’d read where a man asks,

How come, no matter how long since I’ve seen the family or how

much distance I put between us, they can always push my buttons?

The answer:

Because they installed them.

At the Fair Green, I was hit by a dizzy spasm and had to lean against a wall. Two women passing gave me a wide berth, one said,

“Elephants, and it’s not eleven yet.”

Sweat cascaded down my face. A hand touched my shoulder. I felt so bad I hoped I was being mugged. A voice,

“You’re in some distress, my friend.”

That distinctive tone. It was Padraig, the head wino. He took my arm, said,

“There’s a bench here, far from the madding crowd.”

Led me down. I thought, if my mother’s watching, as she always was, she’d hardly be surprised. Got to the seat and Padraig said,

“Here, attempt a sip of this potion.”

I looked at a brown bottle and he said,

“Can it be any worse than what you’ve already imbibed?”

“Good point.”

I drank. If anything it was tasteless. I’d expected meths. He said,

“You expected meths.”

I nodded.

“This is an emergency concoction I learned from the British army.”

“You were in the army?”

“I don’t know. Somedays, I would swear I still am.”

Already, I was improving, said,

“It’s doing the job.”

“Certainement. The British understand the concept of relief. They don’t, alas, always know where it applies.”

This was way beyond me so I said nothing. He asked,

“To paraphrase our American allies, you tied one on?.”

“Whoooo... did I ever.”

“Was there an occasion?”

“My friend died.”

“Ah, my condolences.”

“I missed his funeral and, no doubt, pissed off what few friends I had.”

A garda came, stood and barked,

“Ye’ll have to move along, this is a public area.”

Padraig was up before I could answer, said,

“Yes, officer, we’re on our way.”

As we moved, I said to Padraig,

“Jumped up gobshite.”

Padraig gave a small smile, said,

“There’s a pugnacious streak in you.”

“I know those guys. I used to be one.”

“A gobshite?”

I laughed despite myself.

“Well, probably. But I used to be a garda.”

He was surprised, stopped, took my measure, said,

“Now that I wouldn’t have surmised.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“One senses a certain longing though. Perhaps you might reapply.”

“I don’t think so. These days, they like candidates to have a degree.”

“But a degree of what.”

We’d reached the top of the square. A drinking school near the toilets called to Padraig. I said,

“Before you go, can I ask you something?”

“Verily. I cannot promise an answer of truth, but I’ll try for conviction.”

“Do you believe in karma?”

He put a finger to his lips, didn’t answer for ages, then,

“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction... yes, I believe.”

“Then I’m fucked.”

I’d gotten home with only a six pack. At the off-licence, I’d wanted to lash in the Scotch but if I had any chance, that wasn’t it. Padraig’s potion had held and I got to bed without further damage.

Slept till dawn. Coming to, I wasn’t in the first circle of hell. Was able to forego the cure and get some coffee down. Sure, I was shaky as bejaysus but nothing new in that. Put the sixer in the fridge and hoped I could ration down. Showered till my skin stung and even trimmed the full arrived beard. Checked the mirror and went,

“Phew”

The reflection showed a tattered face.

Phoned Ann. Answered on first ring.

“Yes.”

“Ann, it’s Jack.”

“Yes?” Ice.

“Ann, I don’t know where to begin.”

“Don’t bother.”

“What?”

“I’m not able for this any more. I’ll send you a cheque for your services, I won’t be requiring them further.”

“Ann... please.”

“Your friend is in Rahoon Cemetery. Not far from Sarah. If you’re ever sober enough to get there. Personally, I doubt even that.”

“Could I just...”

“I don’t want to hear it. Please don’t call me again.”

The phone went down. I struggled into my suit and headed out. At the cathedral, I heard my name being called. A man came running over, said,

“I got it.”

“What?”

“The Post Office. I gave you as a reference.”

“I thought you didn’t want the job.”

“I don’t, but it’s nice to be wanted.”

“Well, I’m glad. When do you start?”

“Start what?”

“The job.”

He looked at me as if I was nuts, said,

“I’m not going to take it.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I have a horse for you.”

By this stage, I half expected he’d trot a stallion out from the church. He said,

“The 3.30 at Ayr. Rocket Man. Take a price and go heavy.”

“How heavy?”

“Feckin’ medieval.”

“OK... thanks.”

“Thank you. I always wanted to be a postman.”

Stopped in Javas for a coffee. The waitress had no English but a dazzling smile. That’s a fair trade. I said,

“Double espresso.”

Pointed it out on the menu.

Moment of financial truth. Took out my wallet and gave the first sigh of relief. It wasn’t weightless. Had a peek. Notes... notes were visible. Slow to slower count, one in fact to count cadence. Two hundred. Before I could rejoice, a shadow fell across me.

A large man, familiar if not instantly recognisable. He asked,

“Might I have a word?”

I put my left hand on the table, said,

“Come to break them again.”

It was the guy from the security firm, the guard who’d given me my original beating. He pulled out a chair, said,

“I want to explain.”

The waitress brought the coffee, looked at him, but he waved her away. I said,

“This I’ve got to hear.”

He began.

“You know I’m a guard. The security is a good nixer, lots of the lads do it. When Mr Ford told me you were causing trouble, I helped out. I didn’t realise what he was. He’s dead, did you know?”

“I heard.”

“Yeah, well, turns out he was a pervert. Hand on my heart, I’d never stomach that. After... after we’d done you... I found out you used to be on the force. If I’d known... I swear, I’d never have done it.”

“What is it you want, forgiveness?”

He lowered his head.

“I’ve been reborn in the Spirit.”

“How nice.”

“No, it’s true. I’ve resigned from the force and the security. I’m going to do God’s work now.”

I sipped the espresso. Bitter as unheard prayer. He said, “I hear you’re still on that case, the young girl’s suicide.”

“Yeah.”

“I want to help. To make amends.”

He produced a piece of paper, said,

“This is my phone number. I still have contacts, and if you need anything...”

“I’ll have God on my side, is that it?”

He stood up, said,

“I don’t expect you to understand, but He loves us.”

“That’s a comfort.”

He put out his hand, said,

“No hard feelings.”

I ignored his hand, said,

“Cop on.”

After he’d gone, I looked at the piece of paper. It had his name

And a phone number.

I was going to sling it but changed my mind.

Went to the florist’s. It was the same girl who’d sold me the roses. She said,

“I remember you.”

“Right.”

“Did they work?”

“What?”

“The roses, for your lady?”

“Good question.”

“Ah... that’s a pity. You’re going to try again?”

“Not exactly.”

“Oh?”

“I need a wreath.”

A look of horror, then,

“Did she die?”

“No... no, somebody else, a friend.”

“I am sorry.”

A small priest walked by. He said,

“How ya.”

He had the jolliest face I’d seen in a long time. The girl asked,

“Do you know who that is?”

“He’s a small priest.”

“He’s the bishop.”

“You’re coddin’!”

“And the lovliest man you’d ever meet.”

I was astonished. As a child, I’d known bishops who ruled like feudal lords. That you’d see an exhalted cleric bounce down the street, in relative anonymity, was a revelation.

The girl said if I wrote down the name and details, she’d see to it the wreath was delivered, adding,

“I don’t think you want to carry it round town.”

I toyed with the notion of bringing the wreath into the bookies but let it go. The girl gave me a measured look, said,

“I’d say you were a fine thing when you were young.”

Harte’s was located off Quay Street. They’d had a bookies shop through three generations. Then the big English firms bought out the local outfits. Harte took the money, then opened right next door. The town was delighted. Not often you got to stick it to the Brits financially.

I’d known Tom Harte a long time. When I entered, he was leaning over form sheets, enveloped in cigarette smoke, said,

“Jack Taylor, by the hokey. Is this a raid?”

“I’m not a guard any more.”

“That’s what they all say.”

“I want to get a bet on.”

He extended his arms, encompassing the premises, said,

“You’ve taken the right turn.”

I gave him the name and asked for a price. He checked the teletext, said,

“Thirty-five to one.”

I wrote out a docket and laid all my cash beneath. He read it, lowered his voice, asked,

“Are you serious?”

“As the grave.”

Two other punters studying the dogs sensed the change in atmosphere, strained to hear. Tom said,

“Jack, I’m a bookie but you’re one of our own. There’s a hot thing in this race; he’ll hack home in a common canter.”

“All the same.”

“I’m trying to do you a favour here.”

“Will you take the bet?”

He gave a shrug they perfect in bookie school. I said,

“Right, I’ll be seeing you.”

“Sure you will. Hold that thought.”

I checked the docket again and headed out. One of the punters followed, called,

“Jack.”

I stopped outside Kenny’s, let him catch up. He had the pallor of turf accountant’s confinement. The smell of nicotine was massive. The eyes had the mix of fawning and slyness that takes years to achieve. He’d peaked. Gave me the half smile of the damned, asked,

“Got something?”

“Well, I dunno is it any good.”

“Come on, Jack, I need a break.”

“Rocket Man.”

He looked stunned. As if his winning ticket had been disqualified. He said,

“Be serious.”

“I am serious.”

“Arrah, feck you. What did I expect from a guard?”

Near the Protestant school, just a Catholic away from Victoria Square, is Bailey’s Hotel. Now, this is old Galway. New hotels are built on every available space, but Bailey’s seems to have escaped the gallop to prosperity. It hasn’t been

sold

revamped

rezoned.

In fact, it’s rarely noticed.

You don’t hear of “commercial travellers” nowadays. But if you’d a mad passion to find one, they’d be at Bailey’s. Country people go “for the dinner”. The exterior is pure weathered granite and the small sign reads “ OTEL”. The H is back in the fifties, lost in the mist of Morris Minor aspirations.

On a whim, I went inside. A reception desk is tucked in the corner. An elderly woman was leafing through Ireland’s Own. I asked,

“Mrs Bailey?”

She looked up and I’d have put her age at eighty. But her eyes were alert. She said,

“Aye.”

“I’m Jack Taylor, you knew my father.”

It took her a minute and then,

“He worked on the line.”

“He did.”

“I liked him.”

“Me, too.”

“Why have you a beard?”

“Notions.”

“Foolish notions. Can I help you, young Taylor?”

“I need accommodation... long term.”

She waved a hand at the décor, said,

“We’re not fancy.”

“Me either.”

“Mm... mm... there’s a bright room on the third floor that’s been vacant.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Janet, she cleans every other day, but she sometimes forgets.”

“That’s fine. Let me pay you.”

This was purely a gesture. All my cash was with the bookie. She asked,

“Have you a credit card?”

“No.”

“That’s good ‘cause we don’t take them. Pay me the last Friday of the month.”

“Thank you. When could I move in?”

“I’ll get Janet to air the room and put a kettle in. Anytime after that.”

“I really appreciate it, Mrs Bailey.”

“Call me Nora. It’s just a room, but I hope you’ll feel at home.”

I already did.

That night, I packed. Didn’t take long. Punctuated by the six pack. Telling myself,

“Ease on slow with these, maybe I can chill.”

Like all lies and the best illusions, it helped me function short time. I lined four black bin bags along the wall, said,

“My wordly possessions I thee endow.”

With those

broken fingers

a broken nose

and a beard

I wasn’t an advertisement for the Celtic tiger.

The phone went. Picked it up, hoping it was Ann, said,

“Hello.”

“Jack, it’s Cathy B.”

“Oh.”

“That’s warmth?”

“Sorry, I’m packing.”

“A magnum?”

“Gee, that’s funny. I’m moving out tomorrow.”

“Are you moving in with yer old lady?”

Sign of my age. Thought she meant my mother.

“What?”

“She likes you, Jack. At the gig, she couldn’t take her eyes off you.”

“Ann! Jesus, no... I’m moving into a hotel.”

“Weird city, dude. What hotel?”

“Bailey’s.”

“Never heard of it.”

I was glad, meant it was still a Galway thing.

“My friend Sean died.”

“The old geezer, who had the pub?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. I think I liked him. Hey, I can get a van, help you move.”

“Naw, a cab will handle it.”

“OK. Are you free next Friday?”

“Unless they catch me.”

“I’m getting married.”

“You’re kidding... to who?”

“Everett, he’s a performance artist.”

“I’ll pretend that makes sense to me. Wow... congratulations... I think... how long have you been dating?”

“Dating! Get with the millennium, Jack. I’ve been with him... like... zonks.”

I had to allow for her being English and that they’d lost the grip on language, asked,

“How long?”

“It’s nearly three weeks.”

“Phew, how can you stand the pace?”

“Will you give me away? I mean... you’re the only old guy I know.”

“Thanks... sure, I’d be delighted.”

Horse time.

Put the TV on, brought up the teletext. Was I nervous? Wiped a light perspiration from my brow. OK... that’s the beer. Here we go... results... scrolled to them. First off, couldn’t see it... shit... maybe he didn’t run. Come on... come on...

Oh my God.

Won!

Finished at 12’s and I’d got 35’s. Did a little jig, then punched the air, roared,

Kissed the screen, said,

“Yah little beauty.”

Did some fast heart-pounding sums. Seven big ones. Got the docket out, ensured there was no mistake. Nope, it was clear as day. A knock at the door.

I pulled it open. Linda. I said,

“Yeah.”

“Jack, I hate to be pushy but I wonder if you’d made any arrangements?”

“I have.”

“Oh, that’s great. Is it nice?”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t want us to part on bad terms.”

“Of course. Just ‘cause you’re evicting me, it shouldn’t affect our friendship.”

“I feel bad.”

I laughed out loud, said,

“That’s a tragedy. God forbid you should feel that.”

And I shut the door.

All in all, my last evening was one for the books.

Next morning, I was having coffee, checking everything was ready to go. The news was on. I was only half listening till the local news and

I said,

“He’s done it again.”

The phone went. It was Ann, no preamble, launched,

“You heard the news.”

“Yes.”

“You could have prevented it.”

And she hung up.

If I had a bottle, I’d have climbed in. Called a cab. I carried my stuff outside and waited by the canal. When I closed the door of the flat, I didn’t look back.

The cab driver was a Dub and full of it. I said,

“Bailey’s Hotel.”

“Where’s that?”

I gave him directions and he said,

“How did I miss it?”

I didn’t answer. He spent the journey explaining where the GAA were going wrong. I gave appropriate grunts. At the hotel, he gave it the once over, said,

“Jeez, it doesn’t look much.”

“It’s like the GAA... you have to be on the inside.”

Mrs Bailey was at Reception, asked,

“Need a porter?”

I didn’t know if it was a pint or help but shook my head. She added,

“Janet has the room lovely.”

She handed me a set of keys, said,

“Come and go as you please.”

Beat that.

I’d imagined Janet to be a girl. If anything, she was older than Mrs Bailey. Waiting outside my room, she actually shook my hand, said,

“’Tis great you’re from Galway.”

The room was bright, spacious, with large windows. A vase of flowers on the table. Janet had followed me in, said,

“Just to welcome you.”

A bathroom with a massive tub and acres of fresh clean towels. Beside the double bed was a coffee pot and a pack of Bewley’s best. I said,

“You went to a lot of trouble.”

“Arrah, not a bit. We haven’t had a long-term since Mr Waite passed on.”

“How long was he here?”

“Twenty years.”

“I’ll do the same.”

She gave a huge smile. One from the heart. The type that guile or spite has never shadowed. Looking out into the corridor, as if someone might hear, she said,

“We have dances on a Saturday night.”

“Really?”

Her face lit up, like a nun with chocolate; she said,

“It’s not advertised, not ever. The Swingtime Aces... do you know them?”

I didn’t, said,

“I do. Great band.”

“Oh they’re fabulous. They do foxtrots and tangoes, it’s as lively. Do you dance?”

“You should see my rumba.”

She near squeaked with delight. I said,

“Save the last dance for me.”

I swear, she near skipped off. There was a phone, TV, video. All the essentials. Decided not to unpack. Took the stairs and was on the street in a moment. I wanted a drink so bad, I could taste it on my tongue.

The bookies was empty. Just Hart behind the counter. Without looking up, he said,

“You’ve ruined me.”

“Didn’t you lay it off?”

“Course I did.”

“Back it yourself?”

“Course.”

“So, how are you hurting?”

“I got blind-sided.”

“Don’t we all.”

“You’ll take a cheque?”

“Never happen.”

“That’s what I thought, here.”

Flung a padded envelope on the counter, said,

“You’ll want to count it.”

I did.

As I was leaving, Hart called,

“Jack!”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t come back.”

Walking into Grogan’s, I felt the loss of Sean like damnation. The place looked different, was different. The two perennials at the counter weren’t there. A large fat man came out of the store room. I asked,

“What happened to the sentries?”

“You wot, guv!”

English.

“Two old guys, propped up the bar like clockwork.”

“I got shot of ‘em. Bad for business.”

“You’re Sean’s son?”

He gave me a close look, verging on hostility, said,

“Who’s asking?”

“I was his friend. Jack Taylor.”

Put out my hand. He ignored it, asked,

“Did I meet you at the funeral?”

“I... um... didn’t make it.”

“Not much of a friend then, eh.”

Nailed me there.

He went behind the counter, began busy bar things. I said,

“Could I get a drink?”

“Naw, I don’t think this is your kind of place.”

I stood for a moment and he asked,

“Was there something else?”

“I understand now why Sean never mentioned you.”

He smirked so I added,

“He must have been ashamed of his life of you.”

Outside, I felt a mix of rage and sadness, and it’s a dangerous cocktail. Wanted to go back and flatten the smug bastard. Two Americans stopped, looked at the pub, asked,

“Is this, like, an authentic pub?”

“No, it’s a fake. Go over to Garavan’s, it’s the real thing.” At the off-licence, I loaded up. The assistant said,

“Bit of a party!”

“Bit of a shambles.”

By the time I got back to the hotel, I was feeling the weight. For punishment, I took the stairs. Opened the door of my new room, thought,

“Two seconds to a drink.”

The TV was on. I walked in and Sutton was in the armchair, legs propped on the bed. I nearly dropped the booze. He said,

“They show some shit in the mornings.”

And he clicked it off.

I tried for composure, asked,

“How did you get in my room?”

“Janet let me in, told her we’re brothers. Did you know they have dances here?”

I walked round the chair and he asked,

“What’s in the bag, man?”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I’ve been following you. Make sure you don’t get jumped again.”

“Following me! Who the fuck do you think you are?”

He stood up, hands out in mock defence, said,

“Ah, you’re back.”

“Like you didn’t know, like you ‘forgot’ the gin that night.”

And realised how that sounded. Whine city. As if it was his fault. Tossed him a can, said,

“Stop following me... OK?”

“Okey-dokey.”

We drank in silence till he said,

“I went to the funeral.”

“More than I did.”

“I liked that old bastard. He was a feisty little fuck.”

“His son took over the pub.”

“Yeah! What’s he like?”

“He barred me.”

Sutton laughed out loud and I said,

“Thanks a lot.”

Not too long till we cracked the seal on the Scotch and he said,

“Planter’s done it again.”

“Maybe he didn’t, maybe it is a suicide.”

“Come on, Jack. You don’t believe that. Right after we confront him, he goes straight out and does a girl. It’s ‘up yours’ to us.”

“We can’t prove dick.”

“So, you’re going to let it slide.”

“What can I do?”

“You could shoot him.”

I looked at Sutton’s face. Saw nothing there to indicate he was joking.

Next morning, I was frayed but not wiped. I’d gone to bed the previous lunchtime and, miraculously, stayed there. I was hurting but it was manageable. Hunched over coffee, I was muttering. A knock at the door. Janet. She said,

“Oh, sorry, I can come back later.”

“Just give me ten, I’m outa here.”

She stood at the door and I snapped,

“Was there something?”

“Your brother, I hope I did the right thing.”

“That’s OK.”

“He’s a lovely man, promised me a painting.”

“That’s him all right.”

“Well, I’ll leave you in peace.”

I counted my winnings. Spread the cash on the bed and marvelled. Then I got some envelopes and put a wedge in for the guy who gave me the tip. Next, a wedge for Padraig, the head wino. An envelope for Cathy B.’s wedding present, and that was it.

Time to visit Sean. There was a bus I could get but felt I’d try to walk through the hangover. It’s a hike. From Eyre Square to Woodquay, out by the Dyke Road, on to the Quincenntenial Bridge. Up and on to Rahoon. I remember the old gates of the cemetery. Gone now. A photo of them, by Ann Kennedy, hung in Kenny’s with lines from Joyce’s poem.

My legs were aching in rhythm to my head. I had no intention of visiting my father. Truth was, I felt ashamed. My endeavours of the past weeks were nothing I wanted to bring to him.

Found Sean’s grave without trouble. It was alight with flowers. The temporary marker was the song of forlorn. If I had a cap, I’d have taken it off.

Blessed myself. Some rituals just surface without beckoning, I said,

“Sean, I miss you terrible. I didn’t value the worth of you.

“I’m drinking again and that’s sure to piss you off. I’m sorry I was that very worst of things, a poor friend. I have no pub now either. I’ll come and see you lots. Your son’s an asshole.”

I might have cried had I been able. As I walked away, I glanced in my father’s direction. A woman was kneeling there. For one wild glorious moment, I thought it was Ann. The sheer exhilarating joy.

My mother. Her head down, reciting the rosary. I gave a small cough. She looked up, said,

“Jack.”

I put out my hand to help her up. Couldn’t help but notice how frail she was. The knuckles on her hand, swollen from arthritis. She was, of course, in the regulation black. I said,

“I didn’t know you came.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know, Jack.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

She looked at the grave, then asked,

“Could we go for a cup of tea?”

“Um...”

“I’ll pay. We could get a taxi, too. Go to the GBC... they’ve lovely buns.”

I shook my head. She added,

“I put a bouquet on Sean’s grave. You’ll miss him.”

“I’ll manage.”

“I’ll get a mass for him. At the Augustinian. It’s only a pound there.”

I nearly said,

“That’s right, get the best rate, yah cheap bitch.”

But bit down. She said,

“He liked that church, went to mass there every morning.”

“Look, I... have to go.”

Maybe she said, “Bye, Jack,” but I didn’t hear it. Could feel her eyes as I walked away. Passing through the gates I thought,

“Both my parents are here now.”

The next few days, I exerted massive control and kept my drinking to a level. A level of wanting. Wanting gallons more.

But I was doing two pints at lunch, then holding out till late evening when I’d slow chug two more pints with Jameson chasers.

I knew how fragile this balance was. A gust of wind would plunge me back to hell. The buzz was sufficient to keep me that beat outside reality and I clung fast.

I’d met my tipster and given him his envelope. He was surprised, said,

“Jaysus, I’m surprised.”

“Well, you gave me the information. It’s the least I could do. Did you back it yourself?”

“Back what?”

“Rocket Man! The tip you gave me.”

“Naw, I never do tips.”

I felt he’d have been a whizz in the post office. No sign of Padraig, and I’d checked his haunts.

I rang Ann, felt if I could just see her, we might have a shot. As soon as she heard my voice, she hung up. My beard was full arrived, complete with grey flashes. Told myself it spoke of character, even maturity. Odd times I caught my reflection, I saw the face of desperation.

My plan, as I said at the beginning, was to go to London, get a place by the park and wait. Now I had the money and a reason to wait. Began to scan the English papers for accommodation.

The only thing holding me was a resolution to Sarah’s death. I was in no doubt that Planter was responsible. I hadn’t a clue how to prove it, but I couldn’t leave without some answer.

Found a new pub. Over my years as a garda and after, I’d been barred from every pub in the city. Now though, along with prosperity came new pubs. Tried a few truly horrendous ones. You went in and a babe greeted you with a total welcome.

The

You half expected to be asked your star sign. Walking into one of these places with a high scale hangover, the last item you wanted was enthusiasm. Hangovers can only deal with surliness.

I found Nestor’s by accident. I was walking down Forster Street when the downpour came. The type of rain that is personal. You’re instantly drenched. Stepped into a side street and there it was. Knew I was in business as a sign on the window proclaimed:

Went in and couldn’t believe it, one of the sentries was propped. He nodded, asked,

“What kept you?”

“Where’s the other guy?”

“He had a heart attack.”

“Jaysus, how is he?”

“If you had one, how’d you be?”

“Right. Can I get you ajar?”

He looked at me as if I’d propositioned him, asked,

“Will I have to buy you one back?”

“No.”

“And you won’t put chat on me?”

“Count on it.”

“All right then.”

The pub was old, like a small kitchen. Could hold twenty customers tops. The barman was in his fifties. Two professions that require age

Barmen

and

Barbers

He didn’t know me. What a bonus. I ordered the drink and looked round. Those old signs for Guinness, a guy lifting a wagon and two dray horses with the immortal words:

Authentic, right down to rust. My own favourite is the pelican with a feast of creamy pints in his beak. Now, that is one happy bird. There were signs for Woodbines and Sweet Afton. Even had the lines from Robbie Burns. The barman said,

“I don’t like change.”

“Gets my vote.”

“Guy was in the other day, wanted to buy the signs.”

“Everything’s for sale.”

“Not here it isn’t.”

I went and grabbed a corner. Wooden table, old hardback chair. The door opened, a large farmer came in, said to no one in particular,

“We’ll hardly get a summer.”

My kinda place.