The Greggie

A bit longer than the usual, in fact, an experiment. Please read the introduction to let you know what it's all about. These are actual pubs, and in Lou's, I have had many a good sing-song round the terrible pub piano

 

  

The real British Pub is an institution.  Nowhere in the world is there anything quite like it.  England is filled now with pale imitations, but here and there, real ones exist.  The Royal Arch was one such pub, the Gregson’s Well or ’Greggie’ another.  They were Liverpool pubs at opposite ends of the same street.  This piece is an experiment, perhaps a bit longer than usual and faintly written in dialect.  The Royal Arch or ‘Lou’s’ as we called it after the chosen name (Marie-Louise’) of its landlady is a pub that many years ago, I spent many happy hours in and the characters, I knew personally.  Other members of my family used the ‘Greggie’,   Please take time to read it and criticise.  I need frank feed-back as it is an attempt to work towards longer pieces or novellas.    Don’t spare me – have a go! 

 

Where Village Street joined Everton Road was just typical of many streets in Everton in the 1960s.  Some of the streets were still cobbled and although multi-storey flats were beginning to make their intrusive appearance, the greatest real change in twenty years had been when buses replaced the trams after the burning down of the tram shed at Green Lane.   Half way down the hill was a small area of green with a few trees a view of the multi-storey building site a church and a nearby pub, affectionately known as ‘Lou’s’.  There was a village atmosphere, people met and chatted there.  At early doors one night, Queenie Mullen, the pub’s cleaner and regular customer prepared the place for the evening’s trade while the white haired Biddie O’Hara, as was her custom, knocked on the door ready for another meaningful night of smoke, gossip and drinks from anyone who was prepared to buy her one.  Usually, the only drink Biddie bought was her first.  Being the ‘quaint local character’ had its compensations.

 

‘C’mon, C’mon, get this place open’, Biddie’s shrill voice sounded.

 

  It was as if she was dashing in for a quick one before going home to make tea for her family.  Biddie had no family and she would sit all night over three pints of Guinness and the occasional ‘short’.  Gossip was her life and Queenie its appointed purveyor.

 

Queenie, not averse to a little early gossip, opened up and went back to feeding the fire.

 

‘There y’are Biddie, that’ll warm yer knickers’, she said.

 

‘Where’s ‘Herself’, Biddie asked, ‘Me stomach thinks me throat’s cut!’

 

Queenie, though only a simple pub cleaner was well versed in the nuances of gossip.  Real news had to be preceded by a slight glance at the staircase and a ‘significant pause’ long enough to get the mental taste buds salivating.  This she achieved with well-practised expertise, watching Biddie’s give-away twitch of anticipation for a bit of juicy scandal.

 

‘There’s a live in lodger’, she declared obliquely.

 

At that moment, ‘Herself’, in the person of ‘Marie-Louise’ descended.  Everybody knew that her real name was Doreen but it was a harmless foible.  She was about forty, attractive in a sombre yet wide-eyed way.   Her rather full lips and dark, dark hair hinted at smouldering fires, or at the very least, hidden depths.  Secretly (or so she believed) she longed for a husband.  In truth though, everyone knew it and the odd liaison up the back stairs was not unknown or un-noticed.

 

Biddie was desperate, and nearly choked on her first impatient gulp of the Guinness that a rather smug looking Marie-Louise had served her.

 

‘Have that one on the house’ Marie-Louise said, standing proud over the pumps.

 

Biddie nearly fell off her stool.  This had never happened before

 

There were soft footfalls overhead, as though the walker didn’t want to disturb those below.  As the pub gradually filled with its regular clientele, the black and white moggie which lived there  staked its claim in front of the now blazing fire, vying with Biddie’s knickers for the warmest spot.

 

By now, poor Biddie was twitching with curiosity, unable to resume the conversation with Queenie, and aware that if she was to acquire her usual patronage for the night, she would have to start the loveable eccentric act on the incoming customers.  She was also aware of the presence of a long- haired man with a dark moustache who seemed to have materialised out of thin air.  Actually, she had seen him the previous day on the Green opposite the pub.  He had emerged from a rather swish BMW and strolled past.   He certainly wasn’t a regular in the ‘Arch’ yet seemed to know his way around tonight. 

 

Clarence, the barman, came in at about 6.30 to prepare for the night trade and that gave her the chance she was waiting for to get alongside Queenie. She’d once wondered if there was anything between Clarence and Marie-Louise, but on the other hand he had always seemed a bit light on his feet, what with his white trousers and shoes and all.  Anyway, there were bigger fish to fry. 

 

The stranger had gone; just disappeared, so quietly it was weird. 

 

‘Yes’ commented Queenie as though the conversation had never broken off, ‘He’s the Site Agent on the multi-stories up the brow, big car, plenty of money by the look of it and not bad lookin’ in a creepy sort of way.  That’s him with the long hair and the ’tache.’

 

Biddie’s eyes were on a roving search for her next benefactor but her ears were firmly tuned to the tale.  Having secured her Guinness, which would take her through ’til nine o’clock, she surreptitiously took in Marie-Louise as she tarted herself up a bit in the fly-blown mirror behind the optics.

 

‘Clarence duckie, look after the place for an hour or so will you, I’m just going to have an hour with the books while it’s quiet’ she said, sliding quietly out through the door to the stairs, eyes wide as usual but sparkling now.

 

‘Huh!  It’s no books she’s going to,’ said Queenie.  ‘What am I going to do if he moves in?  They’re not going to need a cleaner with a man about the house.

 

‘Never mind chuck,’ Biddie said with a chuckle.  ‘We can work it out’

 

If she lost Queenie, she lost the source of all the juiciest gossip around the hub of Everton Brow and that would never do.  Two scheming heads got together, the muttering that ensued reaching none but the participants.  Biddie stroked the cat as she took in the heat of the fire, which was now a flameless, glowing mass irradiating the whole bar and certainly, thought Biddie, warming the area described earlier.

 

It was at this juncture that Norma walked in.  You could see at once that she and Marie-Louise were sisters.  It was in the wide eyes, the shape of the head and the hair.  Norma retained her own name but had changed just about everything else.  She was finer boned, more stylishly coifed than her sister, and dressed in a smart coat with a chiffon scarf at the neck.  There was a foxy, scheming look about her and the eyes seemed to bore right through you in a way that her sister’s never did.  Rumour had it that she came “borrowing” money, and Marie-Louise always seemed glad to be rid of her.

 

‘Where’s our Doreen, Queenie?’ she asked, coming straight to the point as was her way.

 

Queenie thought on her feet.

 

‘Marie-Louise is in the front room upstairs, just go right in,’ she said, trying hard to conceal the smirk.

 

‘Oooh!  I don’t think you should have said that,’ said Clarence, proving to be more worldly wise than she had suspected and just getting it out before the thunder of feet hitting floorboards in the room above announced that some sort of disturbance had occurred.

 

Down the stairs came Norma, hissing ‘Dirty B***h!’ as she passed the plotters, and looking quite rumpled.

 

A short while later, Marie–Louise appeared.  Unbelievably, she wore a broad smile, in fact a look of sheer ecstasy, followed by the man, no longer dark and mysterious but laughing all over what you could see of his face behind the dishevelled hair.

 

Biddie and Queenie never found out what the joke was but their problem still remained.  They still had their plan, but for the time being were subsumed in the pleasure of the moment as the man (‘Call me Bob’), supplied drinks all round.  Biddie took this opportunity to have her “short” for the night but lengthened it into a double!

 

*            *            *

 

The next night, the conspirators met in exactly the same manner as the one before.  There was the thrumm of a powerful engine, a slamming car door and in walked Bob. No hovering tonight; he greeted them briskly and cheerfully.

 

Good evening ladies and what’ll you have?

 

Biddie was beginning to wonder whether it was encouragement rather than sabotage that should be the objective, but a glance from her friend read her thoughts and stifled the mutiny.

 

He bounded up the stairs, meeting Marie-Louise half way with a kiss that could be heard all over the snug.  She looked radiant, and when a lad with an urchin cut put his head round the door and offered to clean the car for a fiver, she succumbed to his salesmanship with the throwaway remark:

 

‘I don’t know what he gets up to, but it’s nothing a good wash won’t put right,’ and drew the lad a bucket of hot water.

 

Clarence in his whites looked as if he had just been bowled out for a duck.  No-one ever bought him a drink, just gave him the odd two pence change.  He flicked his head petulantly and tellingly and got on with listening to the plotting, covertly of course.  He too was concerned for his future if ‘Herself’ were to pair up and decide to run the pub as a dual effort.

 

His response was to let down all four tyres on the BMW in the hope that Bob would feel that parking outside was a high risk to take for a bit of nooky and would seek satisfaction in a more salubrious area.  Poor old Clarence.  His whites looked quite rumpled after he had pumped up all four tyres with the foot pump Bob had unceremoniously thrown him. 

 

‘How did he find out?’  Clarence wondered.  That was before he had looked down at the telltale dirt on the ends of just those fingers used to unscrew tyre valves.

 

His humiliation was not yet complete.  Two of the largest, roughest men Clarence had ever seen arrived after a quick ’phone call.  They sat for an hour just gazing, nay, glowering at Clarence then moved silently towards him.

 

‘Two more pints’.  There was no ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ as he served them, his incriminating, trembling fingers still soiled as he handed them their glasses, which he had made sure were brim full.

 

For poor Clarence, both the implication and the very real threat were obvious.  He’d probably lose his teeth along with his job.  The lovers were bound to talk.  Clarence’s emotions were jumbled, a sort of chiaroscuro.  Terror mixed with a frisson of undeniable pleasure at the sight of those two huge, rough men.

 

After another hour on the spit of their gaze, Bob said:

 

‘OK lads, the Ale’s on me, get back to the site now but keep an ear cocked for the ’phone in case there’s any action’.

 

Was there a light stress placed upon the word ‘action?’

 

Clarence shuddered, the girls looked somewhat depressed, and as he went above, Bob tapped his nose knowingly and said to Clarence in a stage whisper,

 

‘No more trouble, nothing said eh?’

 

Clarence though nodding meekly tried to look as if he’d no idea what Bob meant as he walked away still tapping the side of his nose.

 

As one, Queenie and Biddie reached into their pockets and bought the unfortunate and terrified Clarence a large Scotch!

 

 

*            *            *

 

 

One day at lunchtime, the pub was quiet and Marie-Louise looked particularly smug.  Queenie was there as a customer, In fact she used her wages to clear her slate each week and there was little ever left over.  Also present was Clarence, and not to be left out, Biddie.

 

‘I’ve somethin’ to say to you’, Marie-Louise announced, and their hearts sank.  ‘Make us some tea Clarence’ she directed.

 

Now in an English pub, a real English ‘drinking’ pub that is, not one of your tarted up places that serves tea and coffee, one of the most tempting yet unattainable drinks is the staff cup of tea.  Hardened drinkers have been known to weep into their glass for one.  And here was Marie-Louise sharing a brew with Biddie.  Poor Biddie’s loyalties were twisted all over the place.  Here she was, admitted into the Sanctum Sanctorum of the staff brew, yet plotting to wreck the marriage prospects of her hostess.

 

‘Right Petal, I’ve broached the bitter, finished the books and if you’ll just cast your eyes over the Brewery Order before it goes, I think you’ll find it OK’.  This was the new Bob speaking, the one who had learned the business in three months flat and looked set to take over given the chance.  As quickly as he had entered, he left.

 

‘Huh!  Petal indeed’, fumed Queenie and Biddie simultaneously, though not aloud.  Yet both also thought:

 

‘He’d not be a bad one to work for though, he’s never bad tempered and he often treats us’.

 

Nevertheless, the dire consequences of his possible permanence terrified them all.  Oblivious to these feelings, Marie-Louise pressed on with acquainting them of her news.

 

‘Bob’s site closes at the end of the month and he could move on to Leeds’, she declared.

 

‘She doesn’t even look bothered’ muttered Queenie,  ‘Perhaps we’re safe after all’.

 

Then Bang!  The bomb dropped!

 

‘So’.  She paused to enhance the effect,  ‘He’s staying.  In fact he’s asked me to marry him and I’ve accepted’.

 

‘Very nice’ responded an anaemic trio of voices.

 

‘Finish your tea’, said Marie-Louise.

 

*            *            *

 

 

A council of war was held.  Something had to be done.  Off with the gloves and hit where it hurt.  Stage whispers began in earnest.

 

‘None of his predecessors lasted this long’.

 

‘Wait ’til she’s got him.  He hasn’t seen her temper yet’  (neither had they, actually, Ever!).

 

‘D’you remember that old fellow from the hostel, y’know the one who smelt a bit and was seventy if he was a day?’

 

Ever smiling, he still bought them the odd drink, gave them the occasional lift home and never reacted in any way to their attempts to tell him and the rest of the pub what a harlot poor Marie-Louise was.  It was as if he was oblivious, which he certainly wasn’t.  In bed, he and ‘Herself’ would discuss the taunts of the day.

 

‘Were you really such a bad girl’, Bob asked.

 

‘Well, perhaps we shouldn’t have a white wedding’, was the retort and they’d both chuckle their way to sleep.

 

On waking, she asked him:

 

‘What about you big boy?  Virginal are you?’

 

‘Been about a bit I suppose’, was the cryptic reply.

 

‘We’ve lived eh? Let’s leave it at that’.  And so the romance went from strength to strength and the wedding day approached.

 

*            *            *

 

Clarence resigned himself to his fate, Biddie and Queenie resorted to threat. 

 

‘I think’ said Queenie, ‘that the Greggie up the Brow wants a cleaner.  I think I’ll go for it.’

 

‘Good,’ said Marie-Louise with a charming smile, ‘that’ll save me a job’, which left Queenie open mouthed.

 

‘Well I’m going with her’ threw in Biddie, confident that as the pub’s most regular customer, albeit usually with other people’s money, she would carry enormous weight.

 

‘We won’t miss you at all’ said Marie-Louise.

 

At that moment, Bob walked in with a bottle of Champagne on ice.

 

‘That’s really rubbing it in.’ thought Clarence, eyeing the two downcast faces.  ‘Their world crashes around them, they’re made to feel of no value at all, humiliated, and we’re all expected to celebrate’, and with that, he made for the door, doing his best to flounce but seeming more to flounder.

 

‘Clarence, sit down.’ Bob’s voice brooked no argument.  ‘Now, all of you.  Listen carefully.  Over the past months, I’ve had my car attacked, the name of my future wife defamed, scandal spread round the pub, no effort spared to spoil a beautiful friendship, and deliberately been put on display in flagrante.  Well you’ve failed.  Don’t let your Champagne go flat folks, drink up.’

 

The faces were terrible to behold; a mixture of conscience, anger, shame and embarrassment.  It was not a good day.

 

‘Well, it could be that you are just nasty.  Certainly, two of you are worried about your jobs, and you, Biddie, I suppose just don’t like the idea of change and no-one to gossip with, perhaps?’

 

‘We are taking the view that you have a loyalty to Marie-Louise and invite you all to join us at our new pub together, The “Greggie” where there’s room for all.  I ask you to toast; The Greggie and its Gang of Five!’

 

 

John Berry

1^st November, 1999.

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

Chastise me for anything you wish and I'd be interested to hear of anything that could use more clarification for the non Emglish for future reference.