Owd Moleskins
Owd Moleskins heaved a huge sigh of relief. At last, he could contemplate a good, long sleep. Hanging about and waiting stretches the nerves, and his had been stretched too far, too long.
Time was, he made the decisions round the Griffin’s Head. Who was barred – who was forgiven – who was granted a hook above the bar for their special tankard – oh yes, Moleskins ran a good pub. He congenially courted the visiting snoopers, be they from the town council, Customs and Excise, or the tax office, adding up each man at a glance and seeing straight into their personal weaknesses. A little beer, a slice of pie, a feel of the barmaid or a few bob….and then they were his.
But such success, and the running of an imposing double-fronted inn, took its toll as Owd Moleskins got older. He creaked ever more slowly down the stairs from his living quarters to the bar. He quietly dreaded having to deal with the steep cellar steps to inspect the barrels. He knew he had to give his sons more of the running, but he held off as long as he could.
And even after the last inch of the reins was handed over to the next generation, Moleskins still hung around. He felt restless, felt worried – things were being done wrong – being done differently – but nobody listened to him any more. It was as if they couldn’t hear him. This upset Moleskins and he couldn’t sleep any more, and took to wandering the bar and stair landings, grumbling and muttering.
The worst time was when he suddenly happened upon his grown-up grandson, deep in hushed conversation with a man from one of the big breweries. The Griffin’s Head attached to a brewery? Never! Roared Moleskins, and he rushed at the brewery’s accountant with raised fists. But the two men paid no more heed than if a dog had howled in the yard, and the sale was made.
New tenants moved in soon after, but Owd Moleskins refused to move out. He hid in the attic, creeping out after dark to wreak his revenge. At first he would push over tables with a crash, waking the household so they all came running. Or he would throw down pint glasses with a crash onto the stone-flagged floor, or provoke the dog, chained in its kennel out the back, so its maddened yapping raised the entire street from their beds.
But Owd Moleskins found his guerrilla campaign increasingly hard. His strength was ebbing away. He was so tired. But somehow he just couldn’t sleep. He took to sitting for long hours, sighing, watching the gaudily-clad customers come and go. People instinctively avoided his corner of the bar. Days and nights seemed to merge.
His last act of destruction was one dark winter night. He waited until everyone had gone home, then slowly, painfully, but with great determination, leaned on each of the beer taps behind the bar, and left them running, one after the other till the barrels were all empty. Moleskins was very pleased with the chaos that ensued, but he needed to rest for a long time afterwards.
How soon afterwards it was, he couldn’t be sure, but one day Owd Moleskins noticed that the bar-room was strangely empty. All the furniture had gone. There were no bottles and glasses behind the bar, and some men outside were fixing metal sheets over the windows. He got to his feet slowly and stiffly, and tottered over to listen.
“Can’t get any tenants, so brewery’s sellin’ up” one of the men was saying. “I heard it was haunted,” said his friend, as they struggled to lift a steel shutter into place. As the sweating men got level with the window sill, Moleskins beamed cheerfully at them through the glass and gave them a friendly wave.
They dropped the shutter and ran off yelling.
Content with his long life’s work, and more besides, Owd Moleskins settled on a stool by the window and waited expectantly for the bulldozers. With his beloved Griffin’s Head finally sorted out, he knew he could finally sleep.
Owd Moleskins heaved a huge sigh of relief. At last, he could contemplate a good, long sleep. Hanging about and waiting stretches the nerves, and his had been stretched too far, too long.
Time was, he made the decisions round the Griffin’s Head. Who was barred – who was forgiven – who was granted a hook above the bar for their special tankard – oh yes, Moleskins ran a good pub. He congenially courted the visiting snoopers, be they from the town council, Customs and Excise, or the tax office, adding up each man at a glance and seeing straight into their personal weaknesses. A little beer, a slice of pie, a feel of the barmaid or a few bob….and then they were his.
But such success, and the running of an imposing double-fronted inn, took its toll as Owd Moleskins got older. He creaked ever more slowly down the stairs from his living quarters to the bar. He quietly dreaded having to deal with the steep cellar steps to inspect the barrels. He knew he had to give his sons more of the running, but he held off as long as he could.
And even after the last inch of the reins was handed over to the next generation, Moleskins still hung around. He felt restless, felt worried – things were being done wrong – being done differently – but nobody listened to him any more. It was as if they couldn’t hear him. This upset Moleskins and he couldn’t sleep any more, and took to wandering the bar and stair landings, grumbling and muttering.
The worst time was when he suddenly happened upon his grown-up grandson, deep in hushed conversation with a man from one of the big breweries. The Griffin’s Head attached to a brewery? Never! Roared Moleskins, and he rushed at the brewery’s accountant with raised fists. But the two men paid no more heed than if a dog had howled in the yard, and the sale was made.
New tenants moved in soon after, but Owd Moleskins refused to move out. He hid in the attic, creeping out after dark to wreak his revenge. At first he would push over tables with a crash, waking the household so they all came running. Or he would throw down pint glasses with a crash onto the stone-flagged floor, or provoke the dog, chained in its kennel out the back, so its maddened yapping raised the entire street from their beds.
But Owd Moleskins found his guerrilla campaign increasingly hard. His strength was ebbing away. He was so tired. But somehow he just couldn’t sleep. He took to sitting for long hours, sighing, watching the gaudily-clad customers come and go. People instinctively avoided his corner of the bar. Days and nights seemed to merge.
His last act of destruction was one dark winter night. He waited until everyone had gone home, then slowly, painfully, but with great determination, leaned on each of the beer taps behind the bar, and left them running, one after the other till the barrels were all empty. Moleskins was very pleased with the chaos that ensued, but he needed to rest for a long time afterwards.
How soon afterwards it was, he couldn’t be sure, but one day Owd Moleskins noticed that the bar-room was strangely empty. All the furniture had gone. There were no bottles and glasses behind the bar, and some men outside were fixing metal sheets over the windows. He got to his feet slowly and stiffly, and tottered over to listen.
“Can’t get any tenants, so brewery’s sellin’ up” one of the men was saying. “I heard it was haunted,” said his friend, as they struggled to lift a steel shutter into place. As the sweating men got level with the window sill, Moleskins beamed cheerfully at them through the glass and gave them a friendly wave.
They dropped the shutter and ran off yelling.
Content with his long life’s work, and more besides, Owd Moleskins settled on a stool by the window and waited expectantly for the bulldozers. With his beloved Griffin’s Head finally sorted out, he knew he could finally sleep.