Our pals at Deserter recently published Deserter Stories, "the third and final book in the Deserter Quartet". A cornucopia of short stories involving various idlers, losers, dreamers, schemers and charmers, it's a sublime collection of tales of the sordid, sorrowful and sloshed — and makes for the perfect reading companion in your face London boozer. (Or indeed, slumped in an armchair)
To give you a tantalising draught from the literary pint glass, we're reproducing the entirety of the first story, The Publican, in full — with Part Two below (catch up on Part One here).
We've also thrown in a map of the pubs mentioned in this brooding tale; try them one by one, or do the lot as a literary pub crawl. (In real life, the Alley Cats is Andy's own pub, the Shirker's Rest).
The Publican by Andrew Grumbridge (after The Swimmer by John Cheever): Part Two
On leaving the Hermits he turned up Grove Lane. It's quite a hill, Champion Hill, or was it Denmark Hill? Herne Hill? But it held no fear for him. Open your legs and show your class, he thought, and smiled to himself. He was pleased to overtake several other pedestrians before he reached the summit. Another gold medal.
The traffic pollution as he descended into East Dulwich was bad, as ever, caught in the windless valley, and he was pleased to remember a shortcut that took him off the main road and delivered him to the East Dulwich Tavern. Most of the outside tables were already taken — not bad for mid-afternoon — and he headed inside to check out the beer offering.
He had ordered a half of Five Points' Pale when he spotted an elegant woman around his age or a little younger, striding out from the back bar. It looked like Ellie Ribeiro. It was Ellie Ribeiro.
'Electra!' said Gavin. The woman stopped and looked at him.
'Hello, Gavin,' she said.
'Lovely to see you. You look fantastic,' he said, holding out his arms. 'What’s your secret?'
Electra shrugged.
'Smoking, drinking and giving up men,' she said and Gavin laughed. 'We're not all bad.'
'Why are you here?' said Electra.
'I'm heading to my pub. Come with me! I'm going over to the Blythe next.'
'The Blythe?' she said, and frowned. 'That’s where you finished it. Do you remember?'
'Finished it?'
'Chucked me. Dumped me.'
'I was a fool.'
'Arranged to meet for drinks and then dumped me. I had to get ready for it and everything.'
'Such a fool. Come with me now!'
'Oh no. You're on your own now, Gavin Pellegrino.'
'Well at least let me buy you a drink,' he said.
'Buy yourself one. From what I hear, you’re the one that needs it.' And she gestured with her lighter to let him know she was heading out for a cigarette.
Pubs, he reflected as he finished his drink, they hold such memories for people. What a wonderful gift these buildings are. Imbued with all of life. For better or for worse, of course, but life nonetheless.
Next, he jumped on a 185 bus. It was cheating, he acknowledged that, but the Blythe Hill Tavern was a little out of the way — though always worth a detour. The Blythe stands innocuously on the South Circular and if you didn't know it was the best pub in the area you'd most likely miss it. Indeed Gavin had driven past it himself countless times before someone had tipped him off about it. Who had it been? Niamh, maybe? The Blythe, too, was honoured with a picture on the wall at the Cats. In the photograph was its general manager, Pat, giving a thumbs up. Gavin had taken the photo himself.
As the bus climbed up towards Forest Hill, he noticed a bank of cloud had built to the west. It struck him as a menacing presence, like a giant spaceship from a sci-fi film. Someone behind him closed a window with a thunk.
The Blythe was busy, which gladdened his heart. If ever a pub deserved to thrive it was this one. Pat was there behind the bar in his white shirt and tie. That's how they did it at the Blythe. The Irish way.
'Haven’t seen you in a while, GP,' he said, as Gavin approached the taps.
'Eh? Are you losing your head, Pat?' said Gavin, 'I was in the other week, for the St. Leger.'
'That was a year ago.'
How odd. He tried to think back to last month but his mind was blank.
'Listen, I heard about the pub, GP,' Pat went on. 'That must be… I mean, we’re all feeling it. If it’s not the cost of living it’s the supermarkets, right?'
'I’m on my way over there now,' said Gavin, and Pat shot him a glance. 'And I'm travelling there by pubs!'
'Well, that’s good news!' said Pat. 'Hophead, is it?'
'Of course. Just a half though,' said Gavin.
'This one’s on the house, my man, so you may as well make it a pint.'
Gavin loved the mutual support publicans gave each other. Back when he’d opened the Cats, Pat had told him that he met with Declan, the landlord at the Dog & Bell, Michael from Skehans and a couple of others every Monday for beers and chat. He'd even been invited along. An honorary Irish pub man. It had been a very proud moment.
He drank his pint and looked around at the clientele. A table of youngsters were living it up at the big table by the door. Students, maybe. Some old boys were watching the racing. Two women sat drinking white wine while their children laboured over colouring books. Such a mixed crowd; something he was proud to have emulated at the Cats. London pubs could be very tribal, but at his place the millennials and the boomers all rubbed along together just fine.
'Well, nice to see you, GP,' said Pat when Gavin rose from his stool and put on his jacket. 'Physician…'
'...Heal thyself!' they said together and Gavin laughed. Jokes about his initials followed him around like, well, an illness. But it seemed to make people happy so he didn't mind. He liked to make people happy.
He climbed up the little road leading to Blythe Hill Fields. The cumulonimbus spacecraft was moving in, hanging overhead, threatening the good people of Honor Oak. And when he reached the top, a wind was blowing that felt more January than October. A lazy wind, as he recalled Pat once describing the wind at Cheltenham racecourse: it doesn’t go round you, it goes straight through you.
Beneath the cloud the sun was still gamely shining as it slunk towards the horizon. He gazed at it. He might make The Ivy House for a sundowner on their front terrace, he thought. He’d got into sunsets late in life, in his forties. Now he adored them. Once or twice recently they'd made him weep, which had surprised him.
Now he found himself partially blinded. He'd looked at the sun too long. Wherever he looked things were whited out, as if beyond his purview. If he turned his head slightly, he was able to see the path ahead in his peripheral vision and he followed that. Just ignore the blank spots, he thought. Keep going and ignore the blank spots. He
turned up the collar on his jacket and it was a relief to head down the hill, out of the wind and towards the railway crossing that would take him to The Ivy House.
It was further than he had imagined — maybe two miles — and on arrival he treated himself to another full pint — Brockley Pale — and sat in the front bar for a little to re-energise. He recalled his plan to sit out at the front but when he stepped back outside he found the sun had now gone, obscured by clouds. The mothership had taken over the sky and turned it almost black. In the distance he heard thunder. He retreated inside.
Through the pub, in the Tudor-style refectory room on the other side of the serving area, he saw a young woman sitting at the bar eating some food, as the staff often did on their breaks. It was Sandie. He caught her eye and she waved across at him, a little sheepishly.
'Come back to the Cats!' he called across to her.
'I'd love to,' she said with a smile.
'So you’re poaching my staff now, Don,' said Gavin to the bar manager, more quietly. 'She came to us, GP. Needed the work.'
'I'm only kidding. They’re all beautiful free spirits, aren't they? Let them roam!'
It had started to rain when he left the Ivy. Just spitting, but enough for him to quicken his pace as he turned on to Ivydale. He might have cut through the cemetery but the light was fading and he didn't know what time the gates would be locked. There was another peal of thunder as he passed Nunhead Station, louder now, but the
sanctuary of Skehans was just round the corner.
A band was sound checking when he arrived. That was something they did very well at Skehans, the music. And all sorts too. At the Cats they had their open mic night but maybe he should encourage Aidan to have other regular music nights. It was always fun and helped bring in new faces. He eyed the cask ale but he'd already decided he was going to have a Guinness. He stood at the bar and waited for a lad he half-recognised to come over.
'Half a Guinness, please. Actually, make it a pint,' he said.
'Sorry, GP. I’m afraid we've been told not to serve you,' said the young man.
'Not to serve me? Why?'
'I think… because of a time when you weren’t perhaps yourself.'
What was he talking about?
'What? When? Is Michael in? I’ll sort it with him.'
'It's Michael that told us we weren't to be serving you, GP. Sorry, like.'
This was insane. What was it about? It must be a mistake. But maybe it was for the best, given timings. He looked at his watch that wasn't there. He’d sort it out another time.
'Well, I’ll be getting down the road then. But tell Michael I said 'Hi',' he said. 'Can I use the Gents or am I barred from them too?'
'Of course,' said the lad.
Gavin looked at his reflection in the lavatory mirror, scouring his face for signs of a person who might be barred from a pub. But a kindly, if slightly bewildered-looking man stared back at him. He felt suddenly tired. He stood there for a moment, trying to remember something, until another customer came in and interrupted him.
Outside it was raining more heavily. It wasn't far to the Cats and, after the park, blessedly downhill, but he did wish he had a hat. He fastened his blazer and cursed when a button came off in his hand. He slipped it into his pocket but in his heart he knew that probably signalled the end for the jacket. He thanked it for its service.
As he crossed back over the railway, a flash of lightning lit up the sky. A huge clap of thunder followed and now the rain became torrential. A passing car's headlights caught him, a cowed and solitary figure, sheltering momentarily beneath a half-hearted pavement tree. But the Cats was only a couple of minutes away now — he could hear the swish of cars on the main road at the end of the street — and he resolved to push on.
Once he was on Lewisham Way, through hair that was sticking to his face, he could see Aidan had forgotten to put on the trough light that illuminated the Cats' pub sign. That was annoying. If he'd told him once... As he got closer he saw that graffiti had returned to the outside noticeboard. That would have to be painted over. He could do that over the weekend, maybe.
He pushed on the door but it caught on a heavy chain with a padlock. Who'd done that? He went round to the alley window. He peered in, through the gold decal that pointed to the Leopard Lounge and beyond a yellowing notice of repossession.
The place was empty.
Deserter Stories is available to buy now.
