In a quiet glade of rolling meadow, lay a peaceful lane whose serenity made the local library sound like a blacksmithy. Such was the serenity held within of this nook of draping willow, that travellers could not help but to pause here, breathing in the air and wishing that there was a teahouse nearby to enjoy a well-cooked scone. This was a road that could only exist in the county, and so it was that upon a gentle bend of Allendale Rd there rested an inn, and that inn was named the Copperpot
‘Oi! Who threw the axe!’
Errol Grangly bellowed, as he wrenched the hand-axe from a pillar and indiscriminately flung it towards the milling brawl that had enveloped his front bar. Errol was a patient man, his years of running a small country inn had told him that a fist fight was good for business and the heavy rattle of his cash-drawer as it opened gave him the impression that tonight’s business was become quite good. Among keeping your head, as a barman it is wise to keep behind the bar when a fight breaks out. An unwritten, but mostly legible, code exists that protects the barman from being drawn into the fight, and it is their word that will finally end it. “Last drinks,” would quickly settle the grievances of many and “Whose tab can I collect?” would make even the dead get up to leave the room. Its thirsty work being clobbered with a chair and as you are thrown across the bar there is always a drink to spill. So, beer flowed, the fight danced, and Errol had a feeling that the night was beginning to simmer down toward a weak fracas.
They’ll be all singing soon, he thought to himself as he caught an errant table leg and used it to clout the weedy looking larkin who was trying to reach for the till. Frowning, Errol remonstrated himself for not moving all the furniture outside when he realised that his patrons were log workers: something about a person cutting down trees all day sets them in the mood for fighting-words, and with enough beer the most frustrated hand usually looks for the smartest mouth.
‘If you keep fighting in the garden, I’ll be out there to finish it.’ He echoed across the bar room with the baritone that implied no other alternative.
Hearing a furtive apology, Errol relaxed against the back wall and enjoyed the painting of good-natured violence that unfurled before him. It had been so many years since he had given up the axe, and there were still times where he missed the comradery of working in the Northern forests.
‘Lad, will you come out from underneath the counter. If they wanted your neck, they’d of had it by now.’
The once dashing highwayman–and now indentured chef of the Copperpot–Myles Honeywort was tucked into the corner of towel cupboard and was clutching at a spatula with fear-filled determination.
‘They’ll burn the place down. We’re trapped. They won’t stop until we’re dead.’ Myles quivered. Himself, still relatively new to the world of conflict outside of polo and the washing of his family cat. The traders he used to deal with were reasonable, practical, you could talk to a travelling merchant. But woodsmen? Between the “uew’s” and “errights” Myles was at a loss as to what they were actually saying half of the time and struggled to find common ground with a person who thought as much of shaving as they did of washing.
‘They’ll tire out soon enough,’ Errol said while packing a pipe with tobacco, ‘and the ones that wake up in the morning will help sweep up if their able. It’s the way of the world out here lad, got too much time on their hands for holding a grudge.’ Lighting the pipe, the barman paused before he took a breath in.
‘Plus, if they burn down then Inn there’ll be nowhere for them to drink.’
The candles would burn low, and after a while it was only the most vitriolic of revellers that were left to lightly throw misdirected haymakers at bleary shapes that may have mentioned something upsetting about their mothers some years ago. The fight had dwindled into a waltz, and now Myles had felt safe enough that he was able to venture out and look for any cutlery that was no longer being used as a weapon.
‘Is it always this…rough and tumble,’ he said with pause, caught between not wanting to insult his new employer and the distraction of his attempt to remove a fork from a sleeping patron’s shin.
‘Not really, you’ll only get one like this every season or so.’ Errol replied, knocking his pipe-ash into a shoe that had managed to find its way onto the counter, ‘I used to make a type of turnup wine that would kick them off more often, but I’m too old for that now. These day’s I’m happy enough with just the regulars and a few of the lads that bring their instruments in every now and then.’ Looking off toward memory, Errol’s face darkened for a moment before he added, ‘not the boy with the panpipes though. That’s a night that would best be left of as unspoken.’
Striding through the door of a humble inn not six hours ago, Myles could have never expected that his first attempt at a fixed address larceny would end up in full-time employment. But this was ok, he had always found cooking to be relaxing and it was nice to walk through the pantry and work out what menu he was going to prepare for tomorrow.
Life, he thought as he tipped out a mop bucket and found a foot that belonged to the mystery shoe, life out here could be simple. I could do with simple for a while.
And so ended the first shift of Myles Honeywort.
J. McCray
2022
Sunday Short Stories 