The Harbourmaster in Whitehaven is the sort of boozer where Rowan feels instinctively comfortable. It’s not so much spit-and-sawdust as phlegm-and-fibreglass. The cosy pubs in the valley are infinitely nicer to look at and he’s got nothing personal against landscapes, log fires or exposed wooden beams, but there’s something delightfully honest about watering holes where the main aim of the clientele is to get cheaply pissed. He likes people who make no pretence about their recreational habits. People come here to drink. To talk nonsense. To escape solitude or company or whatever else menaces them at home. The men and women who drink here do so because the food is cheap and brown and filling and because they can get more lager for their money than they can anywhere else.
It’s at its quietest now, just after lunch. Those who started drinking at breakfast time have gone home for a microwave meal and a doze. The evening crowd has yet to come in. The handful of men and women who mill around the bar drinking pints of Foster’s and Carling are damp from the fine rain and Rowan keeps hearing snatches of their conversation. He has to suppress a smile as dialect words half-remembered from years before bubble up from the mouths of the pleasantly pissed.
Daft raji.
Proper charver.
Her gadgi; his bewer.
Aye, that’s proper bari.
On the table, his phone vibrates, moving itself closer to a sticky streak of spilled beer. The bottom of the pint glasses have left a perfunctory Olympic symbol on the grainy varnish of the table-top.
He squints at the screen. He’s downed a couple of pints of the local real ale and it’s done nothing to help his headache. He feels as though his eyeballs are expanding in the sockets. If he could use his hands he would be massaging his sinuses. Although he and Vicky are enjoying getting drunk together, he isn’t sure they’ve reached the stage in their relationship where he can safely ask her to knead his Eustachian tube.
“You Bobby Dazzler,” mutters Rowan, as the words come into focus. An hour ago he left a post on the Friends of Silver Birch Academy Facebook group. He’s gone for a soft, deferential tone, in keeping with the general character of the fake social media persona he’s selected for the role.
Thanks so much for letting me join – I won’t bore you all with the details but I’m putting together a bit of a surprise do for one of our number (she’s blocked from seeing this, ha ha!). I want as many of her old friends to be there as possible so watch this space for more info. Which of you good ladies were at the school in 1991? A list of all her classmates would be such a help. And if any of you see Violet on her travels, tell her she has to get back in time for the festivities. Lol!
He smiles to himself as he stares at the list of names, provided so helpfully by the site administrator. Sees Catherine’s names in among others that, so far, mean nothing to him. An older pupil, her avatar showing an attractive brunette with a Botoxed forehead and inflatable lips, has promised to dig out some class photographs for him. He notices a couple of Friend requests from members of the group. Accepts them both and opens an accompanying message. It’s from a sweet-sounding lady called Natasha.
Hi there Rowan and welcome to the Group. I don’t want to sound like a killjoy but there were a few shenanigans back in ’91 that might make things a little awkward on the party front. I’m not sure if you know but Violet and two of her friends were in the paper at that time because they went off with this busker they’d met in Keswick. We had an assembly before they came back and Mr Rideal and Mr Tunstall aid we all had to be very understanding and leave them be and not ask questions in case it upset them. The other girl – I think her name was Fleur or Freya or something – didn’t come back to school but somebody told me she’d gone back to Ireland and she’s never been in touch with any of us. She wasn’t at the school very long. Anyway, thought you should know. Have a great time and do let me know when it’s time for the big shindig ..xx
Rowan clicks his tongue, aware that his leg is jiggling up and down.
It’s a fascinating old building, types Rowan, as quickly as he can. I’ve been having a proper snoop around and it’s such a shame that things didn’t work out for the owners. Seems to me that one of them should have bought some lucky heather when it was offered. Am I right in thinking one of the owners was lost while fell-walking? And who’s this Mr Sixpence I keep hearing about? Hope I’m not disturbing you. Violet does talk about her school days with a lot of affection which is why I want so many of her classmates there. I don’t want to put my foot in it though, so if I’m making a faux-pas just shout at me! xx
He hits ‘send’. Glances around, his fingers steepled at the tips. He suddenly wants to have some space in which to think. The jingle of the slot machine and the bursts of raucous laughter from the table by the window are starting to grate on his nerves. He looks up, irritated. Two middle-aged men are beerily pawing at a younger woman with slicked back, batter-blonde hair. She’s putting up with them because they’re buying her drinks: bottles and glasses and crisp packets spread out on the table like casualties from a battle. As Rowan watches, one of the men raises his buttocks from the red velvet bar stool and emits a long, trumpeting fart. He laughs, delighted with himself, as his mate slaps him on the back and tries to belch an echo. The girl’s dutiful smile stops well short of her eyes.
He looks back at the phone. The trio of dots indicate she’s typing a response. He feels himself becoming restless, as though he’s sitting at a stop-line on a deserted road. He reads the reply quickly, thinking fast.
Mr Sixpence! Ha! Yeah, he was a proper character. We all used to make up stories about what he’d been like before he went a little bit peculiar. He was my first experience of a proper hippy, though he wouldn’t have called himself that. He was like a guidance counsellor as much as an odd-job man. He knew loads of stuff and it was nice to have an occasional teacher who could go from telling you about the philosophies of Carl Jung to instructing you in Reiki healing and teaching you how to catch squirrels. I’m sure wherever he disappeared to he was gratefully received, though we missed him after he’d gone. It was sad seeing his old camp left to go to ruin like that – it was nice him being there in the woods, smoking by the fire, telling his stories about all the places he’d seen and the people he’d helped. He’s probably long dead now but if you happen to find a relative or a next of kin, tell him Mr Sixpence was always our favourite.
Rowan rubs his cheek, little points of light burning in the darkened windows of his eyes.
Wow, at my school the most exciting teacher was the head of geography, and that was just because he had a wig that could defy the laws of gravity. We used to think he’d trained some horribly mutated platypus to cling to his shiny scalp! Anyway, I’ll leave you to it. Before I go, do you think Violet would want Mr Tunstall to get an invitation? He’s still around isn’t he?
He looks up nervously, listening to the clatter of bottles hitting the table; of bar stools screeching across the scarred floor. He can hear the two drunken arseholes trying to work out which actor played James Bond after Roger Moore. The effort of thinking seems to paining them. He keeps hearing the leader say ‘Morgan. That Morgan bloke. Slick fella.” Rowan realises that his brain has got stuck on the word ‘Piers’ and replaced Brosnan with a truly horrifying prospect. Either way, he is resisting the urge to tell them that they’re wrong about this, and a lot of other things too.