I have always wanted a pub of my own.
I drift through the ground floor, getting a feel for the place. Gnarled beams tarred by centuries of pipe smoke support the low ceiling, the oak lintel in the brick chimney breast is charred and indigoed, the stag head above watches me with a glassy eye. The January fire spits resinous sparks, flames gust and dance, then disappear upwards with a roar. The smell of hot pine tickles my nose. Two dogs lay on the hearth, jowls resting on their paws. They raise their heads, tilt them to one side when they see me and whine.
Round bullseye panes in the casement windows wink at me. Their circles of light turn a slow kaleidoscope of dust in the wintery sun. The beam plays across the tables of domino and card players, highlighting a whist-four drinking cream-headed beer. I examine each face in the light. I don’t remember them. I can sense history seeping from every pore of this room and the hackles on the back of my neck bristle.
The wall behind the card players is the colour of curdled milk, stained by years of dirty hands and damp shoulders. Black framed photos are randomly dotted across the surface, their subjects hazed behind sepia glass. I examine them; men in working clothes raising tankards; bar staff in white aprons lined up along the front of the building; past landlords with their hounds.
Set apart from the others is a picture of four men beside a corpse dangling from a gibbet. I lean closer and study the legend. Robert Hiscock, hanged for cheating at cards a century ago. I remember at the time we had thought there was more to it than an ace up the sleeve, they don’t hang card sharps. But the lynch mob, judge and jury, had hanged him anyway. Then they cut off his hand and baked it in the bread oven that’s still over there, behind the spitting fire. Those four faces glow with satisfaction and pride, like trophy hunters. Hunters who stole his stash of winnings and left his wife and children to fend for themselves.
I glance back at the whist players sitting in the sunlight, the strong planes of their faces are mirrored by their forebearers in the lynch mob photo. And in a flash of clarity, I know why they gave me this pub.
Threading through the crowd around the bar, I inhale the richness of hoppy beer, the charred dottle of a thousand pipes and the smell of working men. The back of the bar is lined with casks, firkins and kilderkins squatting like a range of ancient brown hills. My eye flits over the spiles and shives on the shelf below the ale. The belch and bubble of a breathing barrel floods flavour into the air and I savour a breath. It is strong enough to make a man salivate as it kisses his tongue. The cask is nearly ready to drink, the tap lies beside it, waiting. What a bonus, a barman who knows his job.
The pewter bar top reflects blurred pools along its surface, like gas lights on water. The ceiling above the bar creaks, wood on wood and for a moment overrides the gurgle of the ale and the click of an optic. Vibration rattles the collection of metal tankards on a high shelf above the bar, each inscribed with a man’s name. I recognise Rodney, Glyn and Tom, regulars. Uncle Robert’s is missing. Did they crush it and bury it with his body, to stop him drinking with the devil? No one seems to believe all those old lores these days, and by the time they find themselves wrong to have dismissed them, it is too late. This place feels like a homecoming. An opportunity to settle old scores, to plan revenge.
A lone drinker sits at the bar, an old man, with red-veined cheeks and washed-out grey eyes. He swallows his peaty liquid a dimple at a time and gives a soft burp when he replaces his glass on the bar. He looks up when I stand beside him and rubs an arthritic hand over his stippled chin then pushes his face forward to peer at me. I lift a hand in acknowledgement and his mouth slackens into a dark o. He looks across to the card players and points at me with a bent forefinger.
‘Look. It’s young Daisy Hiscock.’
They shake their heads at him and make circular motions in the air with their fingers.
‘Bert’s seen another ghost. How many’s that mate?’ They chuckle good-naturedly.
‘She’s there, you mark my words.’
I give Bert my best scare-a-human look and then smile at him to show that he’s not my target.
‘And she’s come for revenge.’ He chuckles, takes a mouthful of ale and smacks his lips together.
‘There’s no such thing as ghosts, Bert. It’s all in your head.’ They glance at the photo, mutter that past deeds are best forgotten and resume their game.
Bert peers into his ale, bottom lip pushed out like a petulant child. I flutter my fingers against the back of his neck, and he shivers.
‘I won’t forget them. Bert Hiscock.’ I breathe the words like a draught through the casement. ‘This is my pub now.’
A half smile lifts the corner of his mouth. ‘See you soon, then, missy.’
I know he is watching as I glide through the wall and out into the street.