An Inn Called Copperpot

He was a cliff.
The rough side of a shale mountain stood impassively behind the bar moving as a human might and frowning as if embodied by the chiselled caricature of true stoicism. As proprietor of the quaintly simple Copperpot Inn, the unblinkingly dead-faced gaze of Errol Grangly stood like a silo stack over a small figure who had asked for all the money in the till. 
Errol was the type of bartender who was built with a rasp of half-hewn gruffness, a gruffness that not only aligned with his temperance but further embodied the full implementation of his vocabulary. With eyes as serious as a headstone, every crevasse across the barman’s face darkened, the air becoming sharp enough that the hunting axe hung behind the bar felt dull by comparison. His face said, ‘try it’ and the span of between each knuckle on his fist backed up the statement.

‘This till?’ Errol intoned, tossing a rag over his shoulder, and placing down a near polished pint glass with deliberate silence; the clatter of a pin falling would be like a bell within the night should one be brave enough to leap onto the floor in this moment.

‘Yes, er…please,’ the would-be robber struggled, instantly regretting his being polite when a command would have been more effective.

…

Myles was a sensible sort of highwayman. He was always courteous, choosing to only stab his customers when it wasn’t an inconvenience for them, and striving to complete each robbery with a clean, professional manner; it was his job to steal, not be unpleasant.     

Still young in his vocation, Myles’s thin face and athletic figure had recently been described as dashing by several wanted posters and he had noticed that he was robbing the same few fainting caravan owners, who were always keenly happy to see him. It was strange, A roguish brigand fighting against king and crown shouldn’t be greeted by a call of Yoo-hoo whenever he walked past a trading wagon.

With trepidation of over-reaching, he decided to start looting fixed addresses, high end ones that horde wealth without giving it back to the township. He wanted to start really fighting the injustice of the rich, breaking the chains of the king’s rule, and internally hopping to stop robbing the enthusiastic lingerie wholesalers whom he kept encountering on the North Road. 

The Copperpot Inn, stood on the bend of Allendale Rd and appeared to be dappled by a welcoming sunlight despite the overcast pall of passing rain. The small, thatched building had an external decor that looked far too tasteful for it to belong to a pub and the al fresco beer garden wasn’t homely enough for it to be a bed and breakfast; this was a country inn down to its muddy flagstones.

Myles imagined the proprietor of the inn to be a miserly old grouch who watered down the ale and kept the bar room cold during the Winter.
Tossing his cloak dramatically upward as he strode into the bar, Myles beamed confidence and stood ready to avail this parsimonious innkeeper of his hoarded gold.

…

‘Well, I could give you change if that’s what you’re after.’ Errol helped, giving whatever this small man’s game was once chance of ending before the addition of injury time. There hadn’t been many brave enough to have a crack at robbing the Copperpot and Errol almost enjoyed the novelty.

Myles was lost in this moment.
On one hand, the challenge of a difficult heist was surely character building, but the problem was that the other hand was about the size of his head, and he had never suffered a broken nose before.

Seeing no glory in running away, he attempted his usual gambit.

‘Sir, I must inform you that I do have a knife and I am at liberty to wield it,’ he said, tossing his coat over his shoulder a second time as dramatic punctuation. His quarry regarded him silently, hopefully too scared to reply.

‘I’ve got twenty-three scars from men who’ve tried the same,’ Errol replied after a moment, adding, ‘I prefer to let them get the first swing, so the conscious feels a bit cleaner,’ while the small man looked to be still tallying his chances.
Twenty-three might be too low, he thought to himself, passing a hand through his beard; numbers were always elusive at his age.

Recalculating his ego when weighed against the life that was flashing before his eyes, Myles realised he needed a new tact without the available room for thinking it through.

‘And I’m also great with customers,’ he said, noting that the narrowing eyes of the bartender meant that he wasn’t going to be thrown into the river just yet. ‘I am here to apply for a job of course, cooking, cleaning, receiving a sensibly small pay slip from the till about once a week. The knife I mentioned is for cutting vegetables…and tension,’ he added, hoping that he had used enough words to cover over his botched robbery.

Errol exhaled a deadweight sigh of disappointment and relaxed his fist into one of plication.

‘If you can cook the job is yours. If you can’t clean, you’ll do it again until you can. Pay is Wednesday and we split the tips regardless o’ how much your butt gets pinched.’ Picking up a pint off his bar, Errol regarded it for a moment and looked through the clear glass toward his new staff member. 
‘If you need a room, grab one upstairs. Always wanted a chef for the inn.’

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J. McCray
2022