Cherry Orphan

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Tuesday began with rain—a slow drizzle. A bad omen perhaps?

James woke up at seven; not something he did often. The dreymen delivered fresh draught kegs on Tuesdays and Fridays, always accompanied by a horrendous racket that could wake the dead as metal barrels clattered down the cellar opening from the street. Despite the sudden demise of the licensees, the pub seemed to run itself. It had occurred to James that unofficially he'd become the new landlord now. The license would pass to his name eventually, but in the meantime the brewery had appointed an interim manager to keep everything strictly legal. A fifteen-year-old could not hold a publican's license under any circumstances.

In pajama bottoms he washed above the waist and brushed his hair, then studied his features in the bathroom mirror before putting on his vest. Everyone said he looked like his mum. Sickly Barry never looked good in any light, so he supposed they were only being polite by saying he resembled Janet before she tried to drink herself to death. Actually, he concluded, he looked like neither of them.

James dressed in a Rolling Stones T-shirt and shorts and put on the new trainers his dad had bought only a month ago. He wondered if he would wear the green Farmingham uniform ever again.

By seven-thirty Mrs. Blackwell had rustled up a fine breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast and jam, starting with sugarcoated grapefruit halves that sported a maraschino cherry in the center, which he partook in the kitchen situated behind the Public Bar. The fiftyish widow treated him as a schoolboy, but in the back of her mind it had probably clicked that he'd soon be her employer and, technically speaking, he already was. The man from Stevensons Brewery arrived at eight-thirty and began by making an inspection of the cellar and the morning delivery, which included checking to see that the cellarman, who everyone called Old George, had done his job properly and bled all the lines to the Public and Lounge bars. Some of this routine James already knew from summer holidays helping out his parents.

The morning rain dried up nicely by nine. His old bicycle still resided in the yard shed, and despite its lack of oil he decided to squeak his way around town, for some exercise at the very least. The riverbank had a cycle track starting at the bridge and running all the way to Penton Hook. By the time he returned the midday boozers were already lining both bars, filling the humid air with their pungent cigarette smoke.

First he checked the Lounge Bar. The perennially aproned Mrs. Blackwell shook her head. No one had asked for him while he'd been out. "I'll let you know as soon as anyone inquires, Master James." She persisted in calling him "Master," something he hated. It made him feel all of twelve.

He decided to grab a sandwich from the Public Bar then service the bicycle in the yard. Armed with spanners, pump and oilcan he set about tire inflation, de-squeaking and chain adjustments. By one o'clock a test ride confirmed a job well done, although the brakes were still less than perfect. He'd buy new parts from Curry's on the High Street later.

No sooner had he put the refurbished bike away Old George waved at him from the back door. Immediately he wondered if he had a visitor. When he stepped inside the confirmation came abruptly. Mrs. Blackwell bustled from the kitchen, nervously wiping her hands on the apron, and indicated George should get lost. "Master James, the young lady is here," she muttered. "No one said anything about..."

"About what?" James rebuffed at full volume, a little annoyed. He'd expected something sad in the looks department, but the distracted face on Mrs. Blackwell seemed to indicate nothing short of a deformed disaster.