Rock Bottom

Rock Bottom

At the foot of the cliff sits an old pub that many folks roundabout say is haunted. Not by any ghost in particular, the murders and scandals being too many to recount. At one time fishing boats would stop short of the shingle beach and spill their crew ashore for a few drinks before they headed back to the harbour. Now, though, it is mainly accessed by a lift, if you’re brave enough to chance it. Otherwise, a set of steep wooden steps criss-cross their way down the birdshit-stained rockface, definitely not to be used after rain, which is most days.

            The pub’s only customers are old men. Many wear the white beard, stained yellow with nicotine, and some still sport fishermen’s hats in the Greek style, small and boxy on the top of the head with a shallow peak to keep out the sun. A souwester would be more appropriate here, though, even on a mild day.

            When two men enter the Rock Bottom shortly after lunchtime on a dull Thursday – no duller, however, than the other six days of the week – they are not greeted with a warm welcome, or even a smile. The other man at the bar, older than them by around half a century, stares at them beneath whiskery brows and gulps his dark brew. The three men clicking dominoes at a small table next to the defunct fruit machine pause their game to watch the proceedings. After all, things like this don’t happen very often in this establishment.

            ‘Two lemonades, please. No ice,’ says the elder of the two irregulars, who has a hint of grey at his smooth temples.

 ‘Ice? What do you think this is? The bleedin’ Ritz?’ The barmaid stoops to retrieve a glass bottle from beneath the bar counter, making the journey back to vertical in two stages. The expected hiss as the top is twisted doesn’t happen, and they watch as two flat drinks are dispensed.

‘Erm … do you serve food, sandwiches …?’

‘Pork scratchings.’

‘Fine. Just the one packet, please.’

‘Four pounds twenty,’ she announces, putting out her hand, which has crusty fake tan lodged in the deep lines of her palm. They watch her drop the five pound note into her wide tabard pocket then turn to talk to the bearded customer, who she knows as Reggie, failing to produce any change. The interlopers exchange a glance before retreating to a small copper-topped table next to the cold grate.

Reggie sits on his barstool, his Guernsey-clad elbow propped on the wet teak of the bar. Smoke from his pipe spirals upwards, dissipating on reaching the wooden beams.  Glass buoys in rotting nets hang precariously above him, the fraying ropes threatening to let loose their loads.

Edmund appears through the door of the mens’ toilet, shuffling awkwardly with his right shoulder drooping, the collar of the shabby anorak slipping steadily down his right arm. He thinks that most frequenters of the bar believe he suffered a horrific injury thirty years ago whilst rescuing a member of his crew who had become tangled in the trawl and was pulled over the stern and into the icy North Sea. He thinks that this is what people believe because it is the story that he tells to anyone who glances his way. However, it is well known through the process of small town gossip that Edmund Carson sustained his injury when his wife threw him out of their upstairs bedroom window one night when he came home drunk, again, and smelling of perfume, again. That was back in the days when she cared.

            ‘Alright Ed?’

            ‘Yeah, pal,’ he sighs, parking his oversized butt on the next stool along. ‘Aye, t’rific, Reg, as usual. What’s with the two suits over there?’ He flicks his head toward the table nearest the fireplace, unlit for months yet still containing black soot and semi-charred crisp packets. Reggie swivels on his stool to face the men, who pretend not to notice him. It’s obvious that they have, though, when they both shift in their seats so that they’re no longer facing the bar.

            ‘Marge,’ grunts Reggie, summoning the woman who is still screwing the lid on the lemonade bottle, which only now contains an inch or so of flat liquid. His brilliantly white teeth are still clamped around his pipe stem. ‘What do you know about them, then? Coppers or what?’

            ‘Aye, Reginald. Our Martin, my nephew, you know the Police Inspector one …’ They both nod, beards poking forwards eagerly, ‘Well he tells me there’s been some reports of vice type stuff going on. You know: drugs, prostitution. That sort of thing. They’re doing some in-vest-i-gating. Dunno what they think they’ll find, though. Good luck to ‘em!’

She hobbles out from behind the counter and heads over to the boys, taking a long time to wipe their clean table with her beery tea towel. They regard her silently, then resume their quiet chatter as she turns back to the bar.

            ‘Couldn’t tell what they were saying, Gents. One of them had a notepad, though. He’d written a few phrases in it, like “scruffy old shit-hole” and “no cause for suspicion”. I wonder what he’ll write in there about this place …’

            Marge plonks herself onto a wooden school chair behind the bar, holding a crinkled plastic shopping bag. She removes what appears to be a semi-knitted scarf of many colours and looks at the needles for a while, brow creased and lips puckered, producing an expression like a champion gurner.

            ‘S’that, Marge? Never took you for a knitter.’

            ‘Aye, well, Reggie, I’m keepin’ my eyes on them two chaps. This is my disguise. Been knitting this scarf for fourteen years. It was for Martin. Don’t s’pose he’ll still want it. Nevermind.’

            For perhaps an hour silence pervades the bar, save for the clicking of dominoes, knitting needles and the odd belch. The phone rings twice, which Marge eventually answers each time with a ‘No, not yet, love.’ Towards two o’clock, chairs scrape and the two younger men rise.

            ‘Thanks for the … um … hospitality. ‘Bye.’

Marge and her two bar friends watch the young men leave, with smug smiles and glances. Edmund even winks at Marge.

            ‘Now, can we please get back to normal?’

At that, both men turn to watch Isobel, the other barmaid on duty that day, appear from the little door at the end of the bar.

‘They gone then?’

‘Aye,’ all three respond.

‘Come on then, Pet. It’s Thursday. You comin’ upstairs? Miss Issy’s waiting.’

She turns back to the door, and Edmund quickly squashes through it behind her, grunting incoherently, Isobel cackling in response. Reggie turns away, rolling his eyes at Marge, who, he notes, has meanwhile returned to her usual standard of professional attire.

‘Fetch us another beer, love,’ he grunts. She bends beneath the counter to pull

out a pint pot, only her pathetic grey knot of hair and slight humpback visible. She groans as she straightens back up, then pulls the decanter one, two, three times, pausing to gather her strength. The slack skin on her arms wobbles with the effort of drawing the beer. As she places the glass on the sticky counter he notices her right nipple gently plunge into the cream froth. She doesn’t flinch, the puckered brown nib desensitised from years of hard suckling.

            ‘You think we’ll see any more of the polis round here, then?’ Reggie asks, idly wandering behind the bar and fiddling with the dusty cassette player. He selects a different tape and pulls it from its box, the broken plastic making a cracking noise. Seconds later, Thin Lizzy blasts from the speakers.

‘Nah, I don’t think it’s their kind of place, ‘ she grumbles, motioning to their table which still contains two almost-full glasses of lemonade and an unopened packet of pork scratchings.’

Two men appear from the lift, one pushing a zimmer frame and the other removing a Fisherman’s Friend tin from beneath his boxy cap.

            ‘We safe, Marge?’ the Tin Man hollers.

            ‘Aye, love. And are we glad to see you!’ She shuffles from behind the bar, revealing varicose veins and threadbare carpet slippers beneath the leopard print mini skirt. She pinches his bottom, and he responds by squeezing her breast flap.

            He holds the tin aloft, the bearded man on the lid bearing more than a passing resemblance to Reggie, right down to the pipe hanging from the right side of his mouth.

            ‘Got your goodies, come and get them!’

            The three men pause their game to wander over, as does Reggie and a man slowly rubbing his eyes that has perhaps been sitting under the Ship’s Wheel all day. Notes are exchanged for little yellow tablets, as refreshing as tiny hot mints.

            ‘Let’s get this party started!’ The twin guitar solo gives way to the familiar vocals, and all of the customers save the silent zimmer frame guy yell, ‘the boys are back in town!’