Conversations with Spirits Read online

  “Where are you from, sir? London, is it?” the barmaid asked.

  She was on the pretty side; albeit inclined to plumpness. Her features were hidden under a thick sheen of powder, which made me wonder what colour her face was when she awoke in the morning.

  “Yes,” I said, knocking back the drink. “Another, please.”

  She went back to the bar and brought the bottle.

  “Is that a problem?” I asked her, as she re-filled my glass.

  She drew herself back, viewing me cautiously: “What?”

  “Coming from London.”

  “No, ’course not.”

  “That’s all right then,” I replied. “Where are you from?”

  “I live ’ere in Pegwell now. But originally I’m from Dumpton.”

  “Dumpton?” I repeated. “Sounds like a nice place.”

  She laughed at this.

  “What’s your name, sir?”

  “Trelawney Hart,” I said, extending a hand. “At your service.”

  “My name’s Jenny,” she said. “Jenny Onions.”

  “Onions…?” I repeated. “Well, I suppose that’s shallot in life!”

  My quip, although clearly an attempt at charm, seemed to meet the space above the unfortunate lady’s head, for she seemed to look upon the comment quite darkly. All subsequent top-ups of my glass were provided in silence.

  The publican was present, but unavailable to serve me; involved, as he was, in a heated conversation about a verse of the Old Testament with a pair of fishermen seated on stools further along the bar. Slamming his fist down with the imbecilic slow gravity of a drunkard, the publican was reinforcing his opinion that ‘the passage’ (I did not discover which) was outmoded and largely irrelevant to Christians in modern Britain. Whereas, from what I could understand, the fishermen were taking God’s side.

  Slipping back my fifth or sixth brandy, it occurred to me that, although no effort had been made to close the tavern’s doors, I should, nevertheless, probably think about making my way to my lodgings. I rummaged through my waistcoat pocket and pulled out the folded slip that Horrocks had given me at the club. As well as train times, he had written upon it the name of a Broadstairs hotel which he had cabled with the details of my reservation.

  With the paper in hand, I dropped down from my stool and edged across the bar trying to think of some way to casually engage the more friendly-looking of the two fishermen. But, just at that moment, a coal-heaver with a boozer’s nose and a bloated face—who had been seated quietly by a far window puffing forth great volumes of smoke—put down his mug of beer and began to sing the verse of some old ditty; in which the sin of parting a poor man and his drink formed the doleful burden.

  Soon, it seemed, the whole bar had closed their eyes and were tapping feet and singing along to the song, with the exception of myself and the barmaid. Looking over at her, I shrugged and shot her a vapid smile, but she got the wrong impression and simply topped up my glass with brandy.

  “Excuse me…” I said, tapping the fisherman on the shoulder. “Can you tell me how I get to Ballard’s Hotel?”

  “You wha’?” said he, twisting around on his stool and blowing smoke from his cutty pipe into my face.

  “Ballard’s Hotel.” I coughed. “It’s in Broadstairs.”

  “Yes? What about it?”

  “Where is it?”

  “Ballard’s ’otel?” he responded, thoughtfully, stroking the stubble on his chin. “You’re right—it’s in Broadstairs.”

  “Right…” I said slowly. “I think we’ve established that now. How do I get there?”

  “What, now?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, you’ll ’ave to walk it—there ain’t no other way. Not at this time.” He spoke with oddly soft vowels; a quirk I would later discover to be peculiar to those born on the Isle of Thanet.

  “How long would that take?”

  “I dunno. Hour, per’aps. If you know the area.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well…” he said finally. “Suggest you’d better wait ’til the mornin’ then, sir.”

  “But I’m staying there to-night,” I said with pique. “I have a reservation.”

  “Dunno what to suggest…”

  Then he shrugged and turned his back to me.

  Returning to my chair, I looked up at the clock above the counter and saw that it was ten-past one in the morning. Wondering how long the bar would stay open, I toyed with the idea of asking the publican. But, worried that this action may in fact alert him to the lateness of the hour, I elected, instead, to remain as innocuous as possible, in a hope that it would delay the inevitable. In such a place as Ramsgate, I fancied, mornings would start early, and so at the very least, there would be people to give directions to me from half-five or six onwards. In the meantime, I would continue steeling myself with brandy. When the bell did ring, I would have the barmaid refill my hipflask and venture out in search of shelter of some kind.

  A strange lull in the room’s noise put me on high-alert and I looked up from my drink to see what was happening. A far door had opened and the tavern’s habitués were all focused on it, watching as the bearded tramp that I had encountered earlier entered. Unperturbed by the volley of playful badinage that seemed to erupt from all corners of the room, he scurried inside.

  The man proceeded to make his way around all the customers of the pub, his advances being met with uniform reproach and occasional laughter. It struck me that he might be hawking something. As he approached the fishermen, a flurry of defensive arms went up, causing him to dodge away from them. He finished up beside me.

  “Hello again,” I said cheerily.

  The man drew himself nearer, bouncing anxiously about on his feet. When he did finally speak, he did so in a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Postcard?”

  I blinked back at him. Fair to say, whatever I was expecting, it was not this.

  “Sorry?”

  “Wanna buy a postcard?”

  “Not really…” I replied shortly. “What sort of postcard?”

  The man winked an eye at me, and from this I gathered that these would not be the sort of cards one could send to a maiden aunt, but would be of the ‘seaside humour’ variety—a low sort of thing, depicting some manner of ribald sauciness.

  “All right,” I replied. “Let’s see them then.”

  With a look of some surprise, the man stepped back. Then, throwing his hand into his tattered overcoat, he produced a handful of dog-eared cards and presented them to me. There was about twenty of them, all identical, depicting a Labrador puppy sadly contem-plating the puddle from a dripping umbrella. Underneath this, the accompanying text asked: ‘Will they blame me for that?’

  “Is that it?” I asked.

  “There’s eigh’een of ’em.”

  “They’re not what I was expecting,” I said, handing them back to him. He snatched them from me, looking almost hurt.

  “I’m sorry. Could you use a drink?”

  The man nodded faintly, his eyes surveying me in a way that belied a palpable mistrust.

  “Excuse me,” I called across the bar.

  Jenny—now a picture of boredom in the company of the publican and fishermen—glanced sulkily across the bar and drifted towards me. “A drink for this man,” I told her. “And another for myself.”

  “You got money?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said with a flash of pique. Reaching into my trouser pockets, I extracted a scrunched-up five-pound note and tossed it onto the counter. “Here.”

  Accepting the banknote with a look of some surprise, Jenny proceeded to flatten it on the bar before us. I watched her scrutinise it, before lifting her eyes and regarding me with an air of uncertainty. In silence
, she then scooped the note up and took it across the bar to the publican, where, between them, they had some manner of muted discussion.

  Presently, the publican shuffled across the bar and met me with a wrinkled brow. He was a stout, red-faced old man with dirty shirt sleeves and a mouth like a crack in a pie lid.

  “You gave ’er a five-pound note,” he said, gesturing to Jenny.

  “I know. There was a reason for it.”

  “Where’d you get that from then?”

  “Well, actually…” I sighed, “Sir Arthur Conan Doyle gave it to me.”

  “That right?” he replied sharply; clearly the name meant nothing to him.

  “I’m afraid so. Can I have a drink now, please?”

  The publican’s face had assumed a serious and judicial air: “What age are you?”

  “Thirty-two. Old enough to purchase alcohol, surely?”

  “That weren’t why I was asking you. There’s a war on, sir—if you ’adn’t ’eard.”

  “I have actually. It’s been in all the newspapers.”

  “My question to you is, sir, why ain’t you fighting?”

  Normally at this juncture I would tell all manner of fantastic and colourful lies, but on this occasion—perhaps subdued by an overdose of fresh air—I told the truth.

  “Emphysema.”

  There was a long pause, and I watched as the publican’s brow knit, processing the remark: “Where?”

  “No,” I sighed. “I suffer from emphysema. I didn’t pass the medical examinations.”

  “Oh,” he said in a softer tone, “I’m sorry to ’ear that.”

  “I also have very delicate feet.”

  “Right. Well, my apologies then,” the publican murmured, his eyes swerving guiltily back to his drinks. “What was it you was after?”

  “Cherry brandy for me,” I turned and gestured to the man at my side. “And whatever this man requires.”

  “Wallop, Billy?” asked the publican.

  Turning, I observed the tramp nodding his head vigorously. The publican crossed the bar and collected up the brass slop trays from the counter. When he had them together, I watched, intrigued, as he set about emptying their contents into a tumbler. The result was an unpleasant-looking brew; brown, with effervescing scum. It looked rather like the contents of a spittoon.

  “What’s that?” I asked in confusion, as the publican shuffled back across the bar.

  “Wallop.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “It’s for ’im,” he said, gesturing to the man at my side.

  “For him?” I exclaimed. “I wouldn’t give that to a dog!”

  “Dog wouldn’t drink it,” replied the publican sniffily. “But ’e will.”

  I turned to the tramp.

  “You’re not seriously considering—–”

  My inquiry was interrupted as the man leant forward and grabbed the tumbler. With a single deft movement, he brought it to his mouth and drained the contents. Then he stood before me, smacking his lips and wiping the remaining froth from his beard.

  I shook my head in disbelief.

  “Get him a proper drink,” I said. “He’ll get sick if he drinks that rubbish.”

  “’S’what ’e likes!” the publican replied defensively.

  “Get him a brandy.”

  With a shrug, the publican shuffled across the bar to collect a clean beaker.

  “What did he call you? Bill, was it?”

  The tramp looked quite startled by my question and nervously tugged at his beard.

  “Billy,” he said in a low voice. “Billy Crouse…my name.”

  I extended a hand.

  “Trelawney Hart!”

  It was with a look of some astonishment that Billy took my hand. It occurred to me that he had spent such a long time living on the outskirts of humanity that normal gestures such as these were something he was no longer accustomed to.

  The publican returned and placed a fresh tumbler on the counter, which he filled with brandy, before withdrawing. Billy picked it up and spent a moment happily contemplating its contents.

  “Where do you sleep?” I asked.

  Billy looked at me, surprised either by my interest or the directness of my question. In response, he pointed towards the ceiling. However, it was all too clear from his ragged appearance that he did not sleep in the pub, and I wondered if he had misheard me.

  “I have a room booked in a hotel in Broadstairs,” I told him. “I’ll get you a room too if you can get me there.”

  Putting the tumbler to his mouth, he knocked back the brandy.

  “Too late for that now.”

  Upon hearing what was clearly the consensus view, I sighed and opened my cigarette case. Offering it to Billy, he picked one out and rolled it for a moment between his fingers. But, as I struck a match and pushed it in his direction, he looked wildly at me and mumbled something about saving it. Reaching into his coat pocket, Billy extracted a rusty Egyptienne tobacco tin and opened it on the bar. The box contained a selection of dog-ends that had obviously been lifted from the roadside (some were still damp with rainwater). Placing the Guinea Gold into the tin with some delicacy, he extracted one of the cigarette ends and put that to his mouth instead. Lighting this for him, I watched as he took one long drag and twisted it out again on the inside of his box.

  “Do you know this area well?”

  “There’s probably no man alive that knows it better,” Billy said, “I was born no more en five minutes from where we’re standin’.”

  “Really? Tell me, how long have you been a tramp?”

  “I’m not a tramp!” Billy vociferated.

  “All right!” I exclaimed. “Steady on.”

  Billy continued sullenly: “I weren’t always like this, you know?!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ten years ago I was a joiner in Canterbury.”

  I removed the cigarette from my mouth, unlighted: “What happened?”

  Billy did not answer at first. Then, his eyes lowered and he glanced in the direction of the fire.

  “My wife was killed en en accident. I took to the drink.”

  There was a long silence. It would have been difficult for any man not to be affected by Billy’s words—but considering his story so closely paralleled my own, it naturally awoke profound feelings of sympathy within me. I looked fondly at him, noting the thoughtful, quivering lines on his forehead and the way his eyes remained determinedly fixed on the hearth flames.

  Ignoring the litany of trite remarks that sprang to my mind, I turned back to the bar and lighted my cigarette.

  Looking across the room, I noticed that whilst I had been talking to Billy the number of patrons in the pub had dwindled considerably. The bar was now unattended. Scanning the room, I saw that Jenny had left us, and the publican was standing next to the far door, bidding farewell to the fishermen that I had so ineffectually engaged earlier in the evening. As the door swung shut behind them, the publican yawned deeply and made his way back to the bar. Lifting the gate and walking through, he saw me gesture to him and sauntered towards us.

  “Yes?”

  “Two more cherry brandies.”

  “They’ll be your last,” he replied.

  I took out my hipflask and placed it on the bar.

  “How about filling this up?”

  “With what?” the publican said, pouring out the last dribble of brandy into my glass and planting the empty bottle on the bar beside it. “We’re all out of brandy now—you drunk ’alf the bottle.”

  “You don’t have to look so unhappy about it,” I returned. “I thought the sale of alcohol was your stock in trade?”

  “Aye, it is. But there’s a war on. And it’s my stock I�
��m tryin’ to conserve.”

  “Oh?” I said casually, “You’re one of them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re a supporter of Mr. Lloyd George?”

  “’Course I ain’t,” the publican returned with a snort. “I own a pub!”

  “I see. Then you think the outcome of the war so hopeless that you’re letting the Germans win already?”

  “What?”

  Turning my head, I gazed across at the darkened waves outside the windows, saying distantly: “I suppose you are closer to them than most down here. I can see why you’d be scared.”

  “Scared?”

  “Sorry…” I said, turning back to face him. “Not scared, so much as…careful.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “You know, not giving us another drink.”

  Without allowing him any chance to respond, I turned my head and began to address Billy once more.

  “The Germans’ puritanical hatred of alcohol is well known—it is, in fact, practically what defines them as a nation. I suppose it’s natural for one who is resigned to thinking that they’ll ultimately triumph to begin to adopt a more abstemious way of life. But, still, I never thought I’d live to see the day that I was denied a drink by an English landlord.

  “Ah!” My hand dashed up to meet my forehead, as though a thought had suddenly occurred to me. Turning back to the publican, I said: “Perhaps, sir, you are a Welshman?”

  “W–Welshman?” he stammered. “Now look ’ere…’course I ain’t a Welshman. It’s the middle of the bloody mornin’, that’s all. I can’t stay open all night.”

  “That would be convincing,” I replied, locking eyes with him for the first time, “except I have only asked you to refill my flask—it was, fairly obviously, my intention to leave.

  “You know,” I said, turning back to Billy. “I was talking to a friend of mine at the Ministry about this very thing only the other day. He called it ‘passive capitulation’. They’re cracking down on it in London.”

  I picked my beaker up and gulped down the half-measure of brandy. Then, placing it back on the bar, I slid the glass towards the publican.