Albert & Veronica Wrigglethwaite
ic nc d to sel by ret il al in oxi ating liqu rs
f r co suptio on or ff the prem es.
Apart from the names of mine hosts, which had obviously been written within the last twenty years, the words can just be faintly made out on the rotten, crumbling sign above the door of The Drop Inn.
The Wrigglethwaites have been the landlords of The Drop Inn for generations. The census of 1841 gave the head of the household as Joshua Wrigglethwaite, farmer and innkeeper.
The Drop Inn stands in the huddle of ancient buildings, which is the sleepy hamlet of Little Hampton. The building has seen better days. The rotting window frames with the paint peeling off. The signs of many slates missing from the roof, which has witnessed many a winter-storm. The ivy growing over the walls is probably the only thing that keeps the fabric of the building together. To the left of the doorway a sign states that, " The Offcumdendale Rotary Club meet here on the first Tuesday of the month."
Although seemingly on its last legs it has a certain charm and welcoming appearance to it. The door is always open (it had got jammed fifteen years ago.) There is the give-a-way sign of an open fire, with the news that a new pope had been elected coming from the chimneystack, and a mellow glow shining through the cracked uncleaned windowpanes of the taproom.
Bigger than it looks from outside it is like stepping into a time warp. On entering through the open door into the pub, the eye is immediately drawn to the roaring log-fire in the inglenook fireplace, with its original bread-oven still in place, although its only use nowadays is to keep the chalk dry for the dart's blackboard. This is The Snug, the "posh" bit. Its cold flagged-floor highly polished with the feet of many generations past. The cobwebbed; smoke blackened oak beams in the roof, the bare whitewashed walls with the obligatory print of Monarch of the Glen by Landseer, a nicotine stained photograph of the Little Hampton Morris Side of 1912, of which Albert's great
Grandfather was The Squire. A stag's head looking nervously around.
An assortment of ancient furniture spread around the room, an old settle with JW 1834 carved in the back, a rickety oak table with a folded beer mat under one leg. A simple wooden bar, the white ring-marks of the many beer mugs that had stained it over the years. No hand-pumps here, just two barrels against the wall, one bitter, one mild, with a steady drip from each spigot into the slops tray beneath. Screwed to the wall, optics for whisky, gin, brandy and rum and underneath a work surface on which stands a half-full bottle of cherries, a browning slice of lemon and a sherry schooner with three toothpicks in it. Beneath are shelves stacked with bottles of beer, which stand on pages of The Daily Express dated Tuesday 17th April 1954.
To the right of the bar, an always-closed door, which leads to the pubs male bastion, The Taproom. It is said in the folklore of Little Hampton that if ever a female person enters the Taproom the crops will fail, the hens will stop laying and the landlord will have to buy drinks all round.
The Taproom, like The Snug, has flag floors, the same whitewashed walls, now stained a yellow brown, and its only trappings a large table, scattered with the remnants of last nights domino game, and six chairs. On a shelf next to the dart's scoreboard stands, gleaming in the light from the shadeless bulb, the Ancient Order of Froth Blowers dart's trophy, which The Drop Inn team has won for the last 32 years in succession.
This then is The Drop Inn. No modern trappings here, no loud piped music, no paper umbrellas to adorn a fancy drink, and no one can spell lasagne, so that's off the menu.
Albert was born in the room above the Snug some 63 summers ago, the only son of Horace and Monica Wrigglethwaite. He grew up within the environs of a small-village pub, attended the village school, helped his mates with their father's haymaking in summer and skated on the village pond in winter. After leaving school he helped his father in the pub and did odd jobs around the village. Albert was growing-up now, and his thoughts turned to the important things in life, namely girls. Albert only had eyes for one, Veronica Hepplewhite. A quiet, pretty girl, Veronica lived with her parents at the farm next to the blacksmith's forge on the road out of the village. They could be seen most days, talking at the farm gate, walking along the lane and, once a month, would dance closely at the socials held in the village hall.
Albert was nineteen when his father's coffin was carried off to the Parish Church graveyard on the back of a brewers dray. That night Albert's mother took to her bed, to grieve for Horace for the rest of her life. The only time she is seen is on the anniversary of Horace's death. She puts on her make-up and her wedding gown and makes a grand entrance into The Snug, makes her way to the seat by the fire, and sits, Miss Haversham like, sipping a barley wine and staring into the fire, making out the outline of Horace in the flames. No one speaks, and then, her drink finished, she makes her way, more slowly with each passing year, back up the stairs to her room.
Albert, now landlord of The Drop Inn, settled into a gentle routine which was violently disturbed one February when Veronica proposed to him.
The wedding took place in the Village church; the whole of Offcumdendale seemed to be there, for nearly everyone was related somehow to each other. The tables at The Drop Inn groaned with food, beer was drunk and spilt, there was much laughing and crying until the early hours, until, finally, Albert and Veronica fell into the bed that Albert had been born in.
And so began the daily routine at The Drop Inn with mine hosts, Albert and Veronica Wrigglethwaite
"Pint John?"
"Please, and half a dozen eggs."
"Quiet tonight?"
"Been like this all day. Only Dewdrop and Danny Boy in."
"Want these on your tab?"
"Please."
Dewdrop aka William (Billy) Thompson is sat, as he always is, on the old settle in the corner. Billy would spend the day here, his dog lying patiently at his feet, half a pint of mild in front of him, the ash on his unsmoked cigarette now three inches long and the dewdrop dribbling from his nose.
Billy never speaks, no one sees him eat. His wife died some years ago and he has never got over the shock of having no one to nag him.
Patrick O'Hanlon, a native of Clifden in County Clare, crossed the sea to find seasonal work some 50 years ago and stayed. Patrick worked hard, saved his money and settled down in a small cottage next to the village post-office.
Never married, he would spend his time, and his money, at The Drop Inn. Now, in his twilight years, he would spend the days sat on "his" stool at the end of the bar, his glass seemingly never empty, the white froth of his Guinness always on his top lip. The craic came thick and fast with all around him, until he would suddenly go quiet, his eyes would partly close and his chin slowly droop onto his chest and very, very faintly, there could be heard, "Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes the pipes are..." at which, Albert gently removed Patrick's glass from his hand, walked round to the front of the bar, helped Patrick to his feet, walked him to the door and turned him in the direction of the village post office.
"Night Pat."
"A bit parky tonight."
"Aye, time I got that door fixed."
"One, two." "One, two." "Turn it up a bit Albert, they won't be able to hear me in the Tap Room."
It's Quiz Night and Percy Palfreyman is tonight's Quiz Master. Percy, a quiet studious man of 61, had been born in the village. Very bright from an early age, he passed the entrance exam to the Offcumdendale Grammar School. Attaining many A-Level passes he went-on to study theology at Oxford.
Percy seemed destined for a career "in the cloth" until, and, this is only hearsay, Percy left college suddenly, amidst whisperings about car parks, barmaids, sheep... Percy took on the village post-office, spending his days franking letters, entering small sums of money in Post Office Savings account-books, whiling away the hours, until, dead on 5 o'clock he would put the "closed" sign up in the door window, rush upstairs, have a quick wash, make himself a sandwich, and then settle down to read - "The monster book of pub quizzes."
"Good evening everyone, welcome to The Drop Inn Quiz."
The buzz of talking halts immediately, a sharp intake of breath can be heard, and a noticeable tightening of fingers on pens can be seen from each team's scribe. The quiz is about to start, the weekly battle between the three teams that make up "Quiz Night at The Drop Inn" every Thursday night. By the door (on Albert's orders) sit The Sheep Dogs, local farmers, just returned from the weekly auction-mart, still reeking with the smell of cow muck, who's combined IQ totals 54. By the window sit The Smarthouses who, in the time between questions, place bets on the time that elapses between each of Billy's dewdrops leaving his nose and hitting the table.
The third team, which is made up of three brothers, Allan, John and Brian King, call themselves Of Orient Are.
"Question number one. What is the capital of the American state of Arizona?"
"Phoenix, I think it's Phoenix!!"
"You sure?" " I thought it was Carson City."
"Well...What do you think Eric?"
"I don't know. Stupid bloody question."
"It could be Lincoln City."
"Nah, that's the capital of Oregan, I've just seen a programme on the telly about it. Leave it blank, we'll come back to that one."
"Question number two..."
"That's the end of the first round. Two minutes then I'll give you the answers."
"OK, swap your papers and I'll give you the answers."
"Question number one, the capital of Arizona is... Phoenix."
"I bloody told you it was!! You won't listen, will you?"
"OK, we'll now have some supper and then we'll do the second half."
Veronica hurriedly brings round the supper, to cries of, "not bloody Spam and Branston again", to each table, and quickly disappears upstairs to catch the end of Coronation Street.
"Full house tonight Albert."
"Aye, it brings 'em in. Another pint?"
"Ok everyone lets do the second half. By the way, Deirdre's fallen out with Ken again."
"OK, here is question number one of the second half. What is the capital of the American state of...?"
"OK, I have now got the results of the quiz."
The buzz of talking halted immediately, a sharp intake of breath could be heard, and a noticeable tightening of fingers on pens could be seen from each team's scribe.
"The winners of the booby prize tonight are..." Percy pauses, a glint in his eyes, an almost scornful look on his face, "...The Sheep Dogs."
There is an audible gasp of relief from The Smarthouses and Of Orient Are, and a resigned look from The Sheep Dogs, for they win the booby prize every week.
"And the winners tonight are ..." Percy pauses, and then slowly and deliberately unfolds a small scrap of paper on which is written the name of the winning team, this is Percy's moment of power and he is going to milk-it for all it is worth, "...The Smarthouses."
"YES!!" "YES!!" "YES!!"
"Think they'd won the World Cup."
"Aye. Another pint?"
In the corner behind Percy, sit, almost unnoticed, Michael and Mandy Metcalfe. Today is their 20th wedding anniversary, and, as they do every year, have come-out to celebrate. Both have made an effort tonight, Mandy has put on her lemon twin-set, which she knit for herself only three years ago, and Michael is looking very dapper in the Fair Isle sweater his mother bought for him on his 21'st birthday. On the table in front of them is their anniversary feast, a half-pint bitter shandy, a Britvic orange juice and two half-empty bags of cheese and onion crisps.
Throughout the quiz, Michael (Phoenix?) and Mandy (Carson City?) had sat motionless, apart from a shuffling of feet and the occasional glance at the clock on the wall, both praying for the clock to strike ten, and then they could go home.
The clock struck ten and, in perfect harmony, Michael and Mandy stood up, put on their coats, and with a weak wave towards the bar, walked out of the pub, their duty done for another year.
"Miserable sods them two."
"Aye. Another pint?"
Afternoon trade at The Drop Inn is always very quiet, usually just Dewdrop and Danny Boy sat in "their" places. Now and then a travelling salesman, lost, looking for directions to Upper Grumblethorpe, stays for a pint and a spam and Branston sandwich
On the first Tuesday of the month the Offcumdendale Rotary Club meet in the village hall in Little Hampton. Prompt at 10am the speaker would begin their talk, "Butterfly collecting for left-handed people," "My collection of Asda receipts," "Taxidermy for beginners," after which, lunch would be taken at The Drop Inn. Doctors, lawyers, retired JPs, all mingled in The Snug, whisky and water, gin and tonic and halves of best bitter in hand, discussing the mornings talk, the weather, money.
"Posh lot them."
"Aye. Another pint?"
Veronica had been slaving away all morning, de-frosting Bird's Eye Steak and Kidney pies, cooking oven-chips and warming peas. The Rotary Club has only six members, so lunch is held in the Taproom.
Lunch over (thankfully), Veronica clears the table, places a cup of instant coffee in front of each one and leaves, carefully closing the door behind her.
Now comes the serious part of the day, the meeting. Dr James Dykewater is the chairman, and, tapping his spoon against the side of his coffee cup (the reason all the coffee-cups in The Drop Inn are cracked), brings the meeting to order. "Gentlemen, good afternoon and thank you all for your attendance."
"Manny would you read the minutes of the last meeting?" Emmanuel Lofthouse, the secretary, reads out the report in his slow, sleep inducing voice, which makes the Steak and Kidney pie lie more heavily on stomachs already crying out for release.
"Just one item on the agenda. The annual trip. Any thoughts?"
"What about going to the brewery?"
"All those in favour?"
"Passed."
"Any other business?"
"See you all next month."
" Bet you a tenner they are going to the brewery again!"
"Another pint?"
Tonight is the final of the Offcumdendale Dart's League cup. The Drop Inn are playing The Muckspreader's Arms (the only two teams in the league), for the Ancient Order of Froth Blowers trophy.
"Quiet please, game on."
A hush descended over the pub. This was it, The Final. The air was static with tension, from both players and non-players. The Drop Inn had been unbeaten for the last 32 years but it was whispered in many circles, that this year was going to be the one when The Muckspreader's Arms came of age. Their team was made up of three of the best dart-players in the dale, who practiced every hour they could, didn't drink on match-nights and, during the week of the final, refused to go shopping to the local Asda store with their wives.
The Drop Inn team had been together now for 38 years and it was telling.
Hair had gone, teeth had gone, but worst of all, the eyes had gone. No young blood came through the ranks of The Drop Inn taproom, just a continual drain of the depleted ranks of the aging darts team.
One hour later it was all over. On a shelf next to the dart's scoreboard, gleaming in the light from the shadeless bulb, could be seen the dustless circle of the outline of the base of the Ancient Order of Froth Blowers dart's trophy.
"No Albert today?"
"Nah, his mother died last night. Pint?"
"Please, and six eggs. Put them on my tab."
Monica was laid to rest by the side of her beloved Horace, buried in her wedding-gown with a bottle of barley wine in her hand; she was now at peace with the world.
"Sorry to hear about your mother."
"Aye, thanks. Another pint?"
Now in his 70th year Albert was tired, he and Veronica needed a well-earned rest. He had seen many changes at The Drop Inn, not always for the better. The dart's team had lost The Ancient Order of Froth Blower's trophy. Dewdrop had met a woman from the next village, and now goes disco-ing every night. Danny Boy had met a violent end, walking home from The Drop Inn one rainy night; he mistook the gate to the village-well for his garden gate. He had mended the front door. The Sheep Dogs finally won the quiz, only Percy knows how, but he suddenly bought a new car!
The Rotary Club President broke a crown on one of Veronica's chips so they now hold their meetings at The Muckspreaders Arms. Michael and Mandy Metcalfe both got drunk celebrating their Ruby wedding-anniversary and have never been seen since.
No children to carry on the Wrigglethwaite name, Albert and Veronica talked long into the night, both knowing that a decision had to be made.
"So, you're leaving?"
"Aye. Another pint?"
The Drop Inn was packed, standing room only, the air thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, it was Albert's last night. The relief barman had been engaged; and Veronica had made her last buffet. The evening drew to a climax, much ale had been drunk, Veronica's buffet of Spam and Branston sandwiches, corn beef fritters and pickled Scotch Eggs lay untouched on the table.
"Ladies and gentlemen could I have your attention please?"
The firm refined voice, of Lord Dufflewick, Lord of the Manor of Offcumdendale, drew immediate hush from the packed Snug. A kindly and revered man, Lord Dufflewick owned all the property in Little Hampton, except for The Drop Inn, which his g-g-g-g-grandfather had lost in a wager over a game of dominoes with the Wrigglethwaites.
"Ladies and gentlemen I would like to thank you all for coming tonight, to say farewell to our dear friends, Albert and Veronica. It is with great ..." feet were shuffled, watches were surreptitiously looked at, throats were cleared, "...and in 1961 I remember Albert..." there were many glazed eyes now, queues were forming at the toilets, Veronica had disappeared upstairs (under the pretext of needing an aspirin) to catch the end of Coronation Street, "...and so it is with great pleasure that I would like to present Albert and Veronica with these wonderful presents that everyone has contributed to."
After many words of farewell, handshakes and kisses, the crowd finally left, to leave Albert and Veronica alone in The Snug. They smiled tiredly at each other, took each other's hand and walked slowly up the stairs, to fall, for the last time, into the bed that Albert was born in.
The following morning Albert and Veronica walked out of the door, turned slowly around and looked up, with a tear in their eye, at the sign above the door of The Drop Inn:
Alb rt & Ve on ca W ig le hw ite
L c nc d t s l y r t il al in ox ating l qu rs
f r co su io on or f t e pr m s.
"You never met Albert, did you?
"No. Another pint?"
ic nc d to sel by ret il al in oxi ating liqu rs
f r co suptio on or ff the prem es.
Apart from the names of mine hosts, which had obviously been written within the last twenty years, the words can just be faintly made out on the rotten, crumbling sign above the door of The Drop Inn.
The Wrigglethwaites have been the landlords of The Drop Inn for generations. The census of 1841 gave the head of the household as Joshua Wrigglethwaite, farmer and innkeeper.
The Drop Inn stands in the huddle of ancient buildings, which is the sleepy hamlet of Little Hampton. The building has seen better days. The rotting window frames with the paint peeling off. The signs of many slates missing from the roof, which has witnessed many a winter-storm. The ivy growing over the walls is probably the only thing that keeps the fabric of the building together. To the left of the doorway a sign states that, " The Offcumdendale Rotary Club meet here on the first Tuesday of the month."
Although seemingly on its last legs it has a certain charm and welcoming appearance to it. The door is always open (it had got jammed fifteen years ago.) There is the give-a-way sign of an open fire, with the news that a new pope had been elected coming from the chimneystack, and a mellow glow shining through the cracked uncleaned windowpanes of the taproom.
Bigger than it looks from outside it is like stepping into a time warp. On entering through the open door into the pub, the eye is immediately drawn to the roaring log-fire in the inglenook fireplace, with its original bread-oven still in place, although its only use nowadays is to keep the chalk dry for the dart's blackboard. This is The Snug, the "posh" bit. Its cold flagged-floor highly polished with the feet of many generations past. The cobwebbed; smoke blackened oak beams in the roof, the bare whitewashed walls with the obligatory print of Monarch of the Glen by Landseer, a nicotine stained photograph of the Little Hampton Morris Side of 1912, of which Albert's great
Grandfather was The Squire. A stag's head looking nervously around.
An assortment of ancient furniture spread around the room, an old settle with JW 1834 carved in the back, a rickety oak table with a folded beer mat under one leg. A simple wooden bar, the white ring-marks of the many beer mugs that had stained it over the years. No hand-pumps here, just two barrels against the wall, one bitter, one mild, with a steady drip from each spigot into the slops tray beneath. Screwed to the wall, optics for whisky, gin, brandy and rum and underneath a work surface on which stands a half-full bottle of cherries, a browning slice of lemon and a sherry schooner with three toothpicks in it. Beneath are shelves stacked with bottles of beer, which stand on pages of The Daily Express dated Tuesday 17th April 1954.
To the right of the bar, an always-closed door, which leads to the pubs male bastion, The Taproom. It is said in the folklore of Little Hampton that if ever a female person enters the Taproom the crops will fail, the hens will stop laying and the landlord will have to buy drinks all round.
The Taproom, like The Snug, has flag floors, the same whitewashed walls, now stained a yellow brown, and its only trappings a large table, scattered with the remnants of last nights domino game, and six chairs. On a shelf next to the dart's scoreboard stands, gleaming in the light from the shadeless bulb, the Ancient Order of Froth Blowers dart's trophy, which The Drop Inn team has won for the last 32 years in succession.
This then is The Drop Inn. No modern trappings here, no loud piped music, no paper umbrellas to adorn a fancy drink, and no one can spell lasagne, so that's off the menu.
Albert was born in the room above the Snug some 63 summers ago, the only son of Horace and Monica Wrigglethwaite. He grew up within the environs of a small-village pub, attended the village school, helped his mates with their father's haymaking in summer and skated on the village pond in winter. After leaving school he helped his father in the pub and did odd jobs around the village. Albert was growing-up now, and his thoughts turned to the important things in life, namely girls. Albert only had eyes for one, Veronica Hepplewhite. A quiet, pretty girl, Veronica lived with her parents at the farm next to the blacksmith's forge on the road out of the village. They could be seen most days, talking at the farm gate, walking along the lane and, once a month, would dance closely at the socials held in the village hall.
Albert was nineteen when his father's coffin was carried off to the Parish Church graveyard on the back of a brewers dray. That night Albert's mother took to her bed, to grieve for Horace for the rest of her life. The only time she is seen is on the anniversary of Horace's death. She puts on her make-up and her wedding gown and makes a grand entrance into The Snug, makes her way to the seat by the fire, and sits, Miss Haversham like, sipping a barley wine and staring into the fire, making out the outline of Horace in the flames. No one speaks, and then, her drink finished, she makes her way, more slowly with each passing year, back up the stairs to her room.
Albert, now landlord of The Drop Inn, settled into a gentle routine which was violently disturbed one February when Veronica proposed to him.
The wedding took place in the Village church; the whole of Offcumdendale seemed to be there, for nearly everyone was related somehow to each other. The tables at The Drop Inn groaned with food, beer was drunk and spilt, there was much laughing and crying until the early hours, until, finally, Albert and Veronica fell into the bed that Albert had been born in.
And so began the daily routine at The Drop Inn with mine hosts, Albert and Veronica Wrigglethwaite
"Pint John?"
"Please, and half a dozen eggs."
"Quiet tonight?"
"Been like this all day. Only Dewdrop and Danny Boy in."
"Want these on your tab?"
"Please."
Dewdrop aka William (Billy) Thompson is sat, as he always is, on the old settle in the corner. Billy would spend the day here, his dog lying patiently at his feet, half a pint of mild in front of him, the ash on his unsmoked cigarette now three inches long and the dewdrop dribbling from his nose.
Billy never speaks, no one sees him eat. His wife died some years ago and he has never got over the shock of having no one to nag him.
Patrick O'Hanlon, a native of Clifden in County Clare, crossed the sea to find seasonal work some 50 years ago and stayed. Patrick worked hard, saved his money and settled down in a small cottage next to the village post-office.
Never married, he would spend his time, and his money, at The Drop Inn. Now, in his twilight years, he would spend the days sat on "his" stool at the end of the bar, his glass seemingly never empty, the white froth of his Guinness always on his top lip. The craic came thick and fast with all around him, until he would suddenly go quiet, his eyes would partly close and his chin slowly droop onto his chest and very, very faintly, there could be heard, "Oh, Danny Boy, the pipes the pipes are..." at which, Albert gently removed Patrick's glass from his hand, walked round to the front of the bar, helped Patrick to his feet, walked him to the door and turned him in the direction of the village post office.
"Night Pat."
"A bit parky tonight."
"Aye, time I got that door fixed."
"One, two." "One, two." "Turn it up a bit Albert, they won't be able to hear me in the Tap Room."
It's Quiz Night and Percy Palfreyman is tonight's Quiz Master. Percy, a quiet studious man of 61, had been born in the village. Very bright from an early age, he passed the entrance exam to the Offcumdendale Grammar School. Attaining many A-Level passes he went-on to study theology at Oxford.
Percy seemed destined for a career "in the cloth" until, and, this is only hearsay, Percy left college suddenly, amidst whisperings about car parks, barmaids, sheep... Percy took on the village post-office, spending his days franking letters, entering small sums of money in Post Office Savings account-books, whiling away the hours, until, dead on 5 o'clock he would put the "closed" sign up in the door window, rush upstairs, have a quick wash, make himself a sandwich, and then settle down to read - "The monster book of pub quizzes."
"Good evening everyone, welcome to The Drop Inn Quiz."
The buzz of talking halts immediately, a sharp intake of breath can be heard, and a noticeable tightening of fingers on pens can be seen from each team's scribe. The quiz is about to start, the weekly battle between the three teams that make up "Quiz Night at The Drop Inn" every Thursday night. By the door (on Albert's orders) sit The Sheep Dogs, local farmers, just returned from the weekly auction-mart, still reeking with the smell of cow muck, who's combined IQ totals 54. By the window sit The Smarthouses who, in the time between questions, place bets on the time that elapses between each of Billy's dewdrops leaving his nose and hitting the table.
The third team, which is made up of three brothers, Allan, John and Brian King, call themselves Of Orient Are.
"Question number one. What is the capital of the American state of Arizona?"
"Phoenix, I think it's Phoenix!!"
"You sure?" " I thought it was Carson City."
"Well...What do you think Eric?"
"I don't know. Stupid bloody question."
"It could be Lincoln City."
"Nah, that's the capital of Oregan, I've just seen a programme on the telly about it. Leave it blank, we'll come back to that one."
"Question number two..."
"That's the end of the first round. Two minutes then I'll give you the answers."
"OK, swap your papers and I'll give you the answers."
"Question number one, the capital of Arizona is... Phoenix."
"I bloody told you it was!! You won't listen, will you?"
"OK, we'll now have some supper and then we'll do the second half."
Veronica hurriedly brings round the supper, to cries of, "not bloody Spam and Branston again", to each table, and quickly disappears upstairs to catch the end of Coronation Street.
"Full house tonight Albert."
"Aye, it brings 'em in. Another pint?"
"Ok everyone lets do the second half. By the way, Deirdre's fallen out with Ken again."
"OK, here is question number one of the second half. What is the capital of the American state of...?"
"OK, I have now got the results of the quiz."
The buzz of talking halted immediately, a sharp intake of breath could be heard, and a noticeable tightening of fingers on pens could be seen from each team's scribe.
"The winners of the booby prize tonight are..." Percy pauses, a glint in his eyes, an almost scornful look on his face, "...The Sheep Dogs."
There is an audible gasp of relief from The Smarthouses and Of Orient Are, and a resigned look from The Sheep Dogs, for they win the booby prize every week.
"And the winners tonight are ..." Percy pauses, and then slowly and deliberately unfolds a small scrap of paper on which is written the name of the winning team, this is Percy's moment of power and he is going to milk-it for all it is worth, "...The Smarthouses."
"YES!!" "YES!!" "YES!!"
"Think they'd won the World Cup."
"Aye. Another pint?"
In the corner behind Percy, sit, almost unnoticed, Michael and Mandy Metcalfe. Today is their 20th wedding anniversary, and, as they do every year, have come-out to celebrate. Both have made an effort tonight, Mandy has put on her lemon twin-set, which she knit for herself only three years ago, and Michael is looking very dapper in the Fair Isle sweater his mother bought for him on his 21'st birthday. On the table in front of them is their anniversary feast, a half-pint bitter shandy, a Britvic orange juice and two half-empty bags of cheese and onion crisps.
Throughout the quiz, Michael (Phoenix?) and Mandy (Carson City?) had sat motionless, apart from a shuffling of feet and the occasional glance at the clock on the wall, both praying for the clock to strike ten, and then they could go home.
The clock struck ten and, in perfect harmony, Michael and Mandy stood up, put on their coats, and with a weak wave towards the bar, walked out of the pub, their duty done for another year.
"Miserable sods them two."
"Aye. Another pint?"
Afternoon trade at The Drop Inn is always very quiet, usually just Dewdrop and Danny Boy sat in "their" places. Now and then a travelling salesman, lost, looking for directions to Upper Grumblethorpe, stays for a pint and a spam and Branston sandwich
On the first Tuesday of the month the Offcumdendale Rotary Club meet in the village hall in Little Hampton. Prompt at 10am the speaker would begin their talk, "Butterfly collecting for left-handed people," "My collection of Asda receipts," "Taxidermy for beginners," after which, lunch would be taken at The Drop Inn. Doctors, lawyers, retired JPs, all mingled in The Snug, whisky and water, gin and tonic and halves of best bitter in hand, discussing the mornings talk, the weather, money.
"Posh lot them."
"Aye. Another pint?"
Veronica had been slaving away all morning, de-frosting Bird's Eye Steak and Kidney pies, cooking oven-chips and warming peas. The Rotary Club has only six members, so lunch is held in the Taproom.
Lunch over (thankfully), Veronica clears the table, places a cup of instant coffee in front of each one and leaves, carefully closing the door behind her.
Now comes the serious part of the day, the meeting. Dr James Dykewater is the chairman, and, tapping his spoon against the side of his coffee cup (the reason all the coffee-cups in The Drop Inn are cracked), brings the meeting to order. "Gentlemen, good afternoon and thank you all for your attendance."
"Manny would you read the minutes of the last meeting?" Emmanuel Lofthouse, the secretary, reads out the report in his slow, sleep inducing voice, which makes the Steak and Kidney pie lie more heavily on stomachs already crying out for release.
"Just one item on the agenda. The annual trip. Any thoughts?"
"What about going to the brewery?"
"All those in favour?"
"Passed."
"Any other business?"
"See you all next month."
" Bet you a tenner they are going to the brewery again!"
"Another pint?"
Tonight is the final of the Offcumdendale Dart's League cup. The Drop Inn are playing The Muckspreader's Arms (the only two teams in the league), for the Ancient Order of Froth Blowers trophy.
"Quiet please, game on."
A hush descended over the pub. This was it, The Final. The air was static with tension, from both players and non-players. The Drop Inn had been unbeaten for the last 32 years but it was whispered in many circles, that this year was going to be the one when The Muckspreader's Arms came of age. Their team was made up of three of the best dart-players in the dale, who practiced every hour they could, didn't drink on match-nights and, during the week of the final, refused to go shopping to the local Asda store with their wives.
The Drop Inn team had been together now for 38 years and it was telling.
Hair had gone, teeth had gone, but worst of all, the eyes had gone. No young blood came through the ranks of The Drop Inn taproom, just a continual drain of the depleted ranks of the aging darts team.
One hour later it was all over. On a shelf next to the dart's scoreboard, gleaming in the light from the shadeless bulb, could be seen the dustless circle of the outline of the base of the Ancient Order of Froth Blowers dart's trophy.
"No Albert today?"
"Nah, his mother died last night. Pint?"
"Please, and six eggs. Put them on my tab."
Monica was laid to rest by the side of her beloved Horace, buried in her wedding-gown with a bottle of barley wine in her hand; she was now at peace with the world.
"Sorry to hear about your mother."
"Aye, thanks. Another pint?"
Now in his 70th year Albert was tired, he and Veronica needed a well-earned rest. He had seen many changes at The Drop Inn, not always for the better. The dart's team had lost The Ancient Order of Froth Blower's trophy. Dewdrop had met a woman from the next village, and now goes disco-ing every night. Danny Boy had met a violent end, walking home from The Drop Inn one rainy night; he mistook the gate to the village-well for his garden gate. He had mended the front door. The Sheep Dogs finally won the quiz, only Percy knows how, but he suddenly bought a new car!
The Rotary Club President broke a crown on one of Veronica's chips so they now hold their meetings at The Muckspreaders Arms. Michael and Mandy Metcalfe both got drunk celebrating their Ruby wedding-anniversary and have never been seen since.
No children to carry on the Wrigglethwaite name, Albert and Veronica talked long into the night, both knowing that a decision had to be made.
"So, you're leaving?"
"Aye. Another pint?"
The Drop Inn was packed, standing room only, the air thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, it was Albert's last night. The relief barman had been engaged; and Veronica had made her last buffet. The evening drew to a climax, much ale had been drunk, Veronica's buffet of Spam and Branston sandwiches, corn beef fritters and pickled Scotch Eggs lay untouched on the table.
"Ladies and gentlemen could I have your attention please?"
The firm refined voice, of Lord Dufflewick, Lord of the Manor of Offcumdendale, drew immediate hush from the packed Snug. A kindly and revered man, Lord Dufflewick owned all the property in Little Hampton, except for The Drop Inn, which his g-g-g-g-grandfather had lost in a wager over a game of dominoes with the Wrigglethwaites.
"Ladies and gentlemen I would like to thank you all for coming tonight, to say farewell to our dear friends, Albert and Veronica. It is with great ..." feet were shuffled, watches were surreptitiously looked at, throats were cleared, "...and in 1961 I remember Albert..." there were many glazed eyes now, queues were forming at the toilets, Veronica had disappeared upstairs (under the pretext of needing an aspirin) to catch the end of Coronation Street, "...and so it is with great pleasure that I would like to present Albert and Veronica with these wonderful presents that everyone has contributed to."
After many words of farewell, handshakes and kisses, the crowd finally left, to leave Albert and Veronica alone in The Snug. They smiled tiredly at each other, took each other's hand and walked slowly up the stairs, to fall, for the last time, into the bed that Albert was born in.
The following morning Albert and Veronica walked out of the door, turned slowly around and looked up, with a tear in their eye, at the sign above the door of The Drop Inn:
Alb rt & Ve on ca W ig le hw ite
L c nc d t s l y r t il al in ox ating l qu rs
f r co su io on or f t e pr m s.
"You never met Albert, did you?
"No. Another pint?"
