Eat, Drink and Be Merry. Just Don't Mention...Him...

 

On the seventh day of Advent, my 3-D tree gave to me...a gently grazing deer. Which is a little ironic given this episode of the story takes place in 'The Rutting Deer' pub. Isn't coincidence a peculiar thing? Onwards, then. Mine's a lime and soda...

...‘The Rutting Deer’ pub couldn’t be more different from ‘The Pear Tree’ if it tried. Clearly a building of ancient structure and history, it is low slung and sprawling, with scattered notices on beams saying ‘Mind Your Head’, and dark corners where gloomy shadows reside. A blazing fire near the bar fills the air with curls of wood smoke; the furnishings are of dark heavy wood and look like they might have been carved by Noah himself. The floor is of huge flagstones, chilly and uneven, telling the tales of thousands of footsteps over the years.

‘Well, this is different,’ says Mrs Miggins, stepping over a tatty looking rug that is just inside the door. The tatty rug lifts its head and sighs, before standing up and revealing itself to be some sort of dog. It stretches, sneezes, takes itself over to the fire place, turns three times anti-clockwise and flumps down to continue its sleep.

‘Good afternoon, weary travellers all!’ comes a cheerful voice from behind the bar. A head pops up and smiles broadly. ‘Is it lunch you’re after. Only I have to tell you that the fish is off, so if you want chips you’ll have to have them with…’ she turns and consults the blackboard behind her, ‘…ham, lasagne, eggs, Spam fritters, a sausage roll, or if you’re a vegetarian, more chips.’ She furrows her  brow. ‘I thought we had more vegetarian options than that. I’ll have to speak to the cook.’ She pauses. ‘Oh yes, that’ll be me…ahahahahahaha..ha!’

‘This bodes well,’ says Mrs Poo, digging Mrs Miggins in the ribs.

‘Good afternoon, my good woman!’ says Kenneth, deciding to take the situation in hand.

The bar woman looks at him. ‘I haven’t been anyone’s good woman for many a year,’ she says. ‘Decades even.’

‘Oh,’ says Kenneth. ‘Erm, well, can I ask if Mrs Glossop is here? Please,’ he adds, as an afterthought, because we all know that basic manners aren’t the Phantomime’s strong point.

‘I am she,’ says the woman. ‘Isobel Glossop, landlady and proprietress of ‘The Rutting Deer Public House’ since, well, since many, many years ago. And to whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?’

The Phantomime looks confused.

‘She means you,’ says Mrs Slocombe.

‘Oh, right,’ says Kenneth. ‘I am Kenneth the Phantomime, famous actor and bon viveur. You may have heard of me?’

Mrs Glossop studies his face. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Can’t say I have. And your travelling companions?’

‘She means us,’ says Mrs Slocombe.

‘Mrs Miggins, Mrs Pumphrey, Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Poo,’ says Kenneth, pointing to each of the hens in turn, who smile and nod at Mrs Glossop.

‘Well, this is very nice,’ says Mrs Glossop. ‘Drinks, anyone? Or is it too early in the day?’

‘I should say not,’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘I’ll have a Babycham, please.’

‘That’s my kind of gal,’ says Mrs Glossop.

Now, I shan’t bore you with the details of the hens’ other drinks orders but suffice it to say they should be ashamed of themselves. But what can I do? I’m on a retreat and have ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with this story whatsoever. It goes to show what happens when they’re let loose to do their own thing in December, though. Disgraceful.

By three p.m, everyone is feeling very jolly indeed. Vast amounts of chips and Spam have been consumed. The pub is slowly filling with locals which means Mrs Glossop’s earlier and very full attention has been diverted to serving her customers.

‘I haven’t had the chance to ask her about the Lord General Porpoise,’ says Kenneth. ‘She’s obviously a wealth of local knowledge; she’s bound to know something about him.’

A glassy-eyed Mrs Pumphrey leans across the table and pokes the tip of her wing into the Phantomime’s face. ‘Kenneth,’ she says, ‘Kenneth, dear, dear, Kenneth, why are you ashooming that the Lord General Porpoise is an he man person. They might very well be an lady Porpoise. Ladies can be Generals too, you know.’ And she beeps Kenneth on the nose before laughing and leaning back in her chair.

‘But if the Lord General Porpoise is a lady,’ says Kenneth, rubbing his nose where Mrs Pumphrey has left a blob of ketchup, ‘then she would be known as the Lady General Porpoise, wouldn’t she?

Mrs Pumphrey leans forward again. ‘Not necessarily,’ she says. ‘Not these days.’ She reaches for her glass of Babycham, which, unfortunately, is empty. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘It’s empty. How sad. I think I’ll get another one. They’re sooooooo luverly…’

She tries to stand up and then she looks at the other hens and giggles. ‘I say,’ she says. ‘I can’t feel my feet. Am I standing up?’

The Phantomime sighs. ‘Stay there, I’ll get the next round. It’ll be an opportunity for me to ask Mrs Glossop about the Lord…or Lady…General Porpoise.’

‘Good man!’ says Mrs Pumphrey. ‘Now, would anyone like a sing song?’

At the bar, Kenneth catches the eye of Mrs Glossop, who has been busily buffing her firkin. ‘Mr Phantomime,’ she says. ‘More Babycham is it?’

‘Please,’ says Kenneth. ‘And can I ask you something? About local history?’

‘Fire away!’ says Mrs Glossop. ‘There’s not much I don’t know about this village of Olden Glish.’

‘I just wondered if you knew anything about the Lord General Porpoise?’ says Kenneth.

 Suddenly, an eerie silence descends on the pub. Everyone stops and stares at Mrs Glossop. Even Mrs Pumphrey stops singing, ‘I was only a brickmakers daughter but I knew how to lay an egg.’

‘Goodness!’ says a pink-faced Mrs Glossop, briskly. ‘Is that the time?’ She reaches for the large brass bell that is standing on the bar and begins to ring it frantically. ‘Time gentlemen, please!’ she calls, clanging away. ‘Drink up, and off you go! Doors will open again at 7 p.m. Cheery-bye everyone!!’

‘Was it something I said?’ says Kenneth.

‘Yes,’ hisses Mrs Glossop. ‘Just wait whilst I lock up, will you? Coming in here all casual-like and mentioning HIM. I ask you, whatever next?’ And she emerges from behind the bar to chivvy the very reluctant to move locals out of her pub.