The Regular
He sat high at the big oak bar impatiently rapping the bottom of his pint glass -- empty -- against the tarnished wood. Not once did he look up. Rather, he stared unblinkingly down into the cylindrical emptiness.
From the kitchen door, she smiled to herself. He stared so intently that it almost seemed he was attempting something supernatural. One day, she mused, the glass would magically refill itself.
He furrowed his brow and banged harder.
Clearly that day would not be today.
“Now, now,” she clucked, sweeping in undulating strides across the pub floor to reclaim the victimized glassware. “What did it ever do to you to deserve such ill treatment, eh?”
She leaned in on her forearm waiting for a response she knew would never come. When the stark silence became uncomfortable, she hefted her haul upright and poured his preferred ale, a flaxen IPA from the brewery a village over.
Her boss had said the man’s name was John, but she couldn’t be sure -- he had never formally introduced himself. In fact, he had never said a word the entire seven months she’d worked here. But he came in at the same time every weekday, and sometimes Sunday, for two pints of ale. No more, never less.
At first she found his presence intimidating, audacious even. Especially that first day. He had blown in with the weather one soggy evening, bowing his big frame to fit under the door, and tromping wet footsteps from tall goulashes across her freshly mopped floor. She had told him where to hang his coat.
She later supposed that it must have been that moment when he recognized her voice as being all wrong. He had paused then, and, without warning or a glance, had let himself around the bar, picked up a pint glass, and poured himself a heady IPA. He had kept his coat.
Later, when suddenly she had noticed his absence, she had found a wet print of his posterior and five quid in coins left behind on the seat.
“A funny bloke, that one,” she had said to no one in particular. But she had smiled all the same.
Betty, a fellow barmaid, gossiped that she knew his tale: A friend of a friend had sources that said he was once high in the ranks of the Russian mafia, but when a trade had gone awry, the mob had blamed him and slit his throat. Only they didn’t do it right, so it didn’t kill him. Doctors were able to save his life, but not his vocal cords.
“He’s never been right since, poor thing,” Betty whispered, adjusting her cleavage before sauntering over to pour him his second pint.
Tom, a waiter, said that was all rubbish. There was nothing remotely interesting about this man, Tom said. He had heard that the silent stranger was just a deaf-mute who helped organize the archives at the university up the way.
“Come on, ladies, even the disabled get the thirst!” he exclaimed. Tom was a jealous guy.
William, her boss and the pub proprietor, just shrugged muttering something incoherent about the unsatisfactory nature of women.
No one seemed to know John's story, so she had stopped asking. But she did ask for the afternoon shifts. Even though she didn’t make as much in tips, she looked forward to his comings.
She observed the mysterious man from the far end of the bar where she was polishing wine glasses between bites of mash mixed with melted Gruyere, her favorite. When he had tipped back the last of his ale, she obligingly turned her back to tend to the chalkboard that would list the night’s dinner special: fish pie with mixed leaf salad. This was their tacit routine -- she believed that he preferred exiting without scrutiny or stares.
She heard the jingle of coins as he stacked his usual atop the stool; familiar footsteps retreating across the floor; a pause; and then a breeze, the door opening and softly shutting.
It was a warm evening, even for July. He pulled his long sleeves up, and slowed his walk to a stop outside the small side window. He liked to watch her come around the bar to collect the coins. She would pick them up, then turn each over one at a time. She always did this. It made him smile.
The back door banged as William struggled with four full rubbish bags. He stepped up to help, easily swinging two at a time up and over into the tall bin.
“Thanks, John,” William said. “Have a good night.”
“You too, Will,” John said, turning to walk the road home.
...........................
Story Inspiration: The Three Daggers, a pub in Edington, England.
Real-Life Review: This quaint pub is so prettily picturesque that it draws on the heartstrings even without an awkward love story. Situated in the rolling hills just beyond Westbury (a two-and-a-half-hour drive west of London), The Three Daggers sets the tone with historical hearths and traditional fare, such as fish pie with mash mixed with melted Gruyere -- not just the protagonist’s favorite. This proudly British pub prides itself on serving locally sourced and seasonal food. For superb seafood, start with the Fisherman’s Board to share; then end on a sweet note with an order of Spotted Dick, a not-to-be-missed custard cake riddled with raisins and served with a side of ice cream and inevitable giggles.
From the kitchen door, she smiled to herself. He stared so intently that it almost seemed he was attempting something supernatural. One day, she mused, the glass would magically refill itself.
He furrowed his brow and banged harder.
Clearly that day would not be today.
“Now, now,” she clucked, sweeping in undulating strides across the pub floor to reclaim the victimized glassware. “What did it ever do to you to deserve such ill treatment, eh?”
She leaned in on her forearm waiting for a response she knew would never come. When the stark silence became uncomfortable, she hefted her haul upright and poured his preferred ale, a flaxen IPA from the brewery a village over.
Her boss had said the man’s name was John, but she couldn’t be sure -- he had never formally introduced himself. In fact, he had never said a word the entire seven months she’d worked here. But he came in at the same time every weekday, and sometimes Sunday, for two pints of ale. No more, never less.
At first she found his presence intimidating, audacious even. Especially that first day. He had blown in with the weather one soggy evening, bowing his big frame to fit under the door, and tromping wet footsteps from tall goulashes across her freshly mopped floor. She had told him where to hang his coat.
She later supposed that it must have been that moment when he recognized her voice as being all wrong. He had paused then, and, without warning or a glance, had let himself around the bar, picked up a pint glass, and poured himself a heady IPA. He had kept his coat.
Later, when suddenly she had noticed his absence, she had found a wet print of his posterior and five quid in coins left behind on the seat.
“A funny bloke, that one,” she had said to no one in particular. But she had smiled all the same.
Betty, a fellow barmaid, gossiped that she knew his tale: A friend of a friend had sources that said he was once high in the ranks of the Russian mafia, but when a trade had gone awry, the mob had blamed him and slit his throat. Only they didn’t do it right, so it didn’t kill him. Doctors were able to save his life, but not his vocal cords.
“He’s never been right since, poor thing,” Betty whispered, adjusting her cleavage before sauntering over to pour him his second pint.
Tom, a waiter, said that was all rubbish. There was nothing remotely interesting about this man, Tom said. He had heard that the silent stranger was just a deaf-mute who helped organize the archives at the university up the way.
“Come on, ladies, even the disabled get the thirst!” he exclaimed. Tom was a jealous guy.
William, her boss and the pub proprietor, just shrugged muttering something incoherent about the unsatisfactory nature of women.
No one seemed to know John's story, so she had stopped asking. But she did ask for the afternoon shifts. Even though she didn’t make as much in tips, she looked forward to his comings.
She observed the mysterious man from the far end of the bar where she was polishing wine glasses between bites of mash mixed with melted Gruyere, her favorite. When he had tipped back the last of his ale, she obligingly turned her back to tend to the chalkboard that would list the night’s dinner special: fish pie with mixed leaf salad. This was their tacit routine -- she believed that he preferred exiting without scrutiny or stares.
She heard the jingle of coins as he stacked his usual atop the stool; familiar footsteps retreating across the floor; a pause; and then a breeze, the door opening and softly shutting.
It was a warm evening, even for July. He pulled his long sleeves up, and slowed his walk to a stop outside the small side window. He liked to watch her come around the bar to collect the coins. She would pick them up, then turn each over one at a time. She always did this. It made him smile.
The back door banged as William struggled with four full rubbish bags. He stepped up to help, easily swinging two at a time up and over into the tall bin.
“Thanks, John,” William said. “Have a good night.”
“You too, Will,” John said, turning to walk the road home.
...........................
Story Inspiration: The Three Daggers, a pub in Edington, England.
Real-Life Review: This quaint pub is so prettily picturesque that it draws on the heartstrings even without an awkward love story. Situated in the rolling hills just beyond Westbury (a two-and-a-half-hour drive west of London), The Three Daggers sets the tone with historical hearths and traditional fare, such as fish pie with mash mixed with melted Gruyere -- not just the protagonist’s favorite. This proudly British pub prides itself on serving locally sourced and seasonal food. For superb seafood, start with the Fisherman’s Board to share; then end on a sweet note with an order of Spotted Dick, a not-to-be-missed custard cake riddled with raisins and served with a side of ice cream and inevitable giggles.