Alison has just caught a couple of ramblers out in the garden, sitting there bold as brass eating sandwiches from two Tupperware containers they’d brought along with them. She politely challenged them, saying, ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t eat your own sandwiches here.’ They looked at her, looked at each other, then simply swapped them.
It threw her. It was so clever she couldn’t think of a comeback.
There’s a new booze rep in today, a cocky young blade in a suit that would look at home in the audience of a darts championship. ‘Lovely gaff you have here,’ he enthuses. ‘I’ve been in some right dives, know what I’m saying.’
‘Really?’ says Alison, already irritated by him. His aftershave is overwhelming, and to her exacting standards the bar is in obvious need of a spruce-up, so she feels a little embarrassed.
‘Went to a pub yesterday and had a ploughman’s lunch. The ploughman wasn’t happy.’ He laughs at his own crap joke, a 364high giggle that goes through Alison like cheese wire.
Sitting across on Table 1, nursing her half-drunk Guinness, Old Betty pipes up, ‘Last week, we had a penguin come in here and ask if anyone had seen his brother, and I says, “What does he look like then?”’
She laughs until she wheezes.
Oh God, it’s going to be like this, thinks Alison.
The rep and Old Betty josh until Alison interrupts to get the bloke back on track. They discuss the new concoction he’s over here promoting – a sickly-sweet alcopop in a cartoon-like bottle that’s supposed to be a lighthouse. After his spiel, the rep hops up on a bar stool and asks to sample the local gin.
‘I never get high on my own supply,’ he winks.
Alison hates winkers.
She joins him for a drink because she bloody needs one.
The rep witters on, ‘You had that trouble over here a while back, yeah? The missing barmaid? The others? What’s the lowdown on that then?’
Her heart sinks. She talks in generalisations and drinks her vodka quickly so she can be rid of him. But when she offers him another drink, a kneejerk habit, of course he says yes. She could kick herself.
He grins, ‘A man walks into a bar and asks the barmaid for a double entendre – so she gave him one!’ That bloody giggle again.
Alison turns to adjust the optics to stop herself throwing the ice bucket in his face.
Not for the first time does she wish Hannah was still around, then they could cut this little prick down to size together.
Old Betty toddles up to the bar for another. ‘I’ll get that for 365you,’ says the rep. ‘Stick it on my card.’
‘Thank you. I’ll have the usual please, Alison.’ Old Betty smiles with all her teeth.
Along with another Guinness, Alison puts through an order for fish and chips and an apple crumble. Serves him right.
‘Hey, why does a barmaid wear fur-lined knickers?’ asks the rep. Neither Alison nor Betty answer. ‘To keep her ankles warm!’ He’s still laughing when Alison finally loses patience and tells the rep and his man bun to fuck off out of her bar.