Free It Always Rains on Sundays Page A

going to take a bit of getting used to I thought. Especially all this time calling it Richard the Lionheart (or, Big Dick’s as most of the locals call it.)
    Though to be fair our new hosts seem friendly enough. ‘Welcome to Tony’s Tavern!’ (two guys – hm?) ‘Hi, I’m Tone and he’s Leslie,’ colourful to say the least. ‘Call him Les. You watch he’ll have you in stitches, he’s a real scream I’ll tell you.’ Leslie giggled, then winked, ‘You’re in for a good time I’ll promise you that.’
    So, we’ll see, it’s early days as yet I suppose.
    Foods not too bad either – a big improvement on Selwyn’s so-called cottage pie. (‘Watch out for the thatch’ heh heh) – at least the gravy moves about. Mind you, microwaves can be a real killer sometimes – (I finished off with treacle-tart). I burnt my tongue on the bastard.
    Let’s face it I hadn’t planned my whole night staring at custard.
    â€˜What’s the temperature after boiling?’ I complained to the glum fat girl who was serving. (They always have an answer.) ‘If you want me to blow it for you, that’s extra’ she retorted sarkily, turning away to the next table.
    Then, just when I’m leaving I bumped into Avril from next door (heard her more like). She was sitting three booths away – I’d know that stupid giggle of hers a mile off. She waved me over, she insisted I have a drink. Shewas with the same hungry looking gypsy-guy I’d seen before (then they say nothing lasts). She insisted I have a drink. His size was deceiving, he’d a handshake like an orang utan. He grinned, displaying two colours of fierce looking teeth.
    Somehow I knew it would never be a lasting friendship.
    â€˜Good evening, I’m pleased to meet you,’ I lied.
    They were well into their second bottle of wine, and it showed. Avril giggled ‘He won’t understand you, he’s from Russia’ she yelped. He grinned, then pointed to his guitar-case, then nodded. So, one in the eye for me. They both laughed.
    He was a Russian folk-singer after all.
    Time to make a move. Avril tried re-filling my glass, (luckily she missed) both my hands went up. I squeezed out of the booth. (‘Yes, absolutely – sure, some other time. Loved to – I’ll look forward to it, you bet!’) ‘Hey, love your new car, she’s a belter’ I lied finally.
    I said I was meeting somebody in the other bar.
    ***
    And no lie whatsoever as things turned out. I’m just on my way out through the other bar (surprise-surprise) – who do I see? Only Gabriel Biggar-Titte, that’s who? There he is, perched on his usual high-stool on the corner of the bar, drink in hand, surrounded by all his usual sycophant cronies. No wonder I looked, for somebody who’s supposed to be laid-up in bed with aheavy cold, this guy looked positively glowing I’d say. His big boomy voice arose above all others.
    â€˜Haw, haw. Haw, haw,’ they all went.
    Some I knew only by sight. Adrian Topham for one, Gabriel’s neighbour who lived up at the Old Manor House (he owns the local dye-works). Also one or two of Gabriel B.Ts business associates. Though, mostly they were horsey people. Everyone talking over-loudly in high excitable voices, with names such as Raeful and Jazz, rich folks that lived south of the river away from the town, with posh accents, part of the braying, ‘larf’ and ‘barth’ fraternity, (who say ‘orphan’ when they mean ‘often).’ Through the hub-bub you hear bits, such as, ‘Well, jest lack et old Bowis, ended ep wight on his bleddy arse in the fecking ditch!’ They really get right up my nose.
    Luckily he didn’t see me.
    All of a sudden, next thing they all started trooping off upstairs. (Round Table night I’d forgot). Pretty soon the whole bar is just about empty.