Short Story: A Bellyful Of Nostalgia

Short Story: A Bellyful Of Nostalgia

In a small country village, just on the fringe of his allotted sales territory, Tom,an insecticide salesman trudged through black-encrusted snow and ice. His car had been abandoned in a ditch, after an unnerving skid, and to complicate matters more, his mobile phone had gone to pot. He hated these narrow, twisted country roads at the best of times. An unexpected overnight snowfall had made things worse.

But he blamed himself. He had let his mind wander. And now he could not even remember what he had let his mind wander into. But it was the last thing on his mind as he sought help.

Once there had been a thriving community centred in and around the village, but the closing of the surrounding coal mines, which had been worked to the death, had practically denuded the place. A few solitary shops, one squalid pub, and a run-down hotel were all that remained. What was left of the community had all but disappeared. At least, on this particular day. It might have been a local holiday, and the survivors had probably gone to the nearest, big town for bargains.

Not a soul was to be seen in the one and only street which stretched a full half-mile from the desolate graveyard at one end to the dismal black foothills at the other end, now sparsely cropped with last night's snowfall.

Tom cautiously entered the squalid pub. A few old yokels sat round a large, open coal-fire, sipping ale. They barely gave him a glance, stranger that he was. As he scoffed down a couple of double whiskies, he felt the heat of the open coal fire at his back, or maybe imagined it, as it would take time to penetrate his thick sheepskin jacket.

Probably the warm internal glow of the hard stuff was the culprit, doing its almighty wizardry, in its own specific time.

Scientists could say what they like, experiment till they were blue in the face, split the glorious alcoholic water of life into its invisible particles of energy with the most advanced technological equipment at their hands; yet there would still be something left-that mysterious inexplorable core of genius, the indefinable substance that transformed feeling and thought, and enfeebled the outside world.

The pub was empty, bar the three old yokels, and the barman, who had also probably seen his sixties more than a decade ago.

The stranger asked to use his phone, but was told it was out of order. He knew the old skinflint was lying, so he offered to stand him a drink, not from any ulterior motive, but to show him that he was made of better stuff.

The old skinflint declined. He took no free drinks from strangers, or for that matter, from his regular patrons. From no one, in fact.

He meant no offence, however. It was simply the policy of the establishment, which he carried out scrupulously in the line of family tradition. His father before him, and his grandfather, not to mention his great grandfather, inherited the tradition. And who was he to flout it?

'What was the reason,' inquired Tom, offended nonetheless.

The cagey publican leaned over the bar, and lowered his eyebrows. 'Listen, young fella, I don't ask no questions. A tradition is like a family heirloom. You keep it, and you treasure it.'

'And then you sell it,' jeered the stranger.

'No one questions a tradition,' repeated the publican. 'And that's the way I run things in this pub.'

'So you'd never break your tradition under any circumstances?'

'Never! I'd sooner cut my throat first.' And the old skinflint cackled in self-appreciation.

'Fair enough,' said Tom, and joined the three old fogeys, who made way for him.

In generous mood, he offered to stand them a full round. Two of them wheezed their acceptance, and the third, unable to clear his throat, merely nodded approval.

'Four double whiskies!' he bawled across to the barman-boss. Then he made himself comfortable in between the three cronies. Huddled round the open coal-fire, he basked in the dancing flames.

'There's nothing like an open coal-fire,' he purred, warming his hands.

'Aye, there's nothing to beat it,' said one of the old trio, covering his blue-veined nose with a similarly marked hand.

'Aye,' wearily sighed the other two in unison. 'There's nothing to beat it.'

The boss-barman came over with the order, and Tom squared him, throwing in a small tip for good measure, and making sure that it jingled noisily on the tray, said blandly. 'It's a tradition with me. Inherited from way back. Tons of generations ago.'

'What?' queried the publican.

'The tip. I hope it's no a tradition with you to refuse it, or turn up your nose at it.'

'Ay, you're a sly young rascal. There's no flies on the young'uns of today.'

There were cheers all round for all good cheer. The whisky was downed for all good cheer as the skinflint boss stood amiably by.

The open coal-fire hissed, crackled, and fissured, while blue and crimson flames danced merrily to their accompaniment.

The oldest of the three fogeys, whose face was blotched blue, except for the nose which was fat, bulbous and speckled brown-he chimed in, 'Aye, you've got to hand it to the young'uns, they know when to crack the whip, not like us old fools, who slaved down the mines for fuck all, and at the end of the day...'

'Aye, at the end of the day,' croaked his mate with the blue-veined nose, 'got a special bonus on top of the fuck all-a permanent bellyful of coal dust in the blood.'

The third one had to have his piece, despite a great effort in giving sound to his words. 'Aye, and in the bones and the larynx, and in the skin, and in the fuckin’ lungs.'

They lamented the closure of the pits, the great life they had down below in the bowels of the earth, the comradeship and solidarity of brawn and dirt and good humour.

If they had the chance to live another life, each of them, would they do the same thing again; would they cede their bones, skin, larynx and lungs to the crippling black dust under the earth?

Before any of them had the answer or could answer, the generous stranger ordered another round of the same: four amber-glowing double whiskies.

Cheers and cheers all round! A toast to the departed colliery! A toast to those departed souls who honoured them by coming to mind! A toast to those poor, forgotten spirits, who did not come to table, forgotten by name! And finally, a toast to the big-hearted stranger, lang may his lums reek, lang may he live, and may the likes of him never die out!

The stranger modestly mumbled away the benefaction. Red-hot flames suddenly shot out of the open coal-fire. A vivid rosiness swept over the faces of the three old miners, for miners they still were until their dying day-a rosiness of fiery youth!

Aye, if they had to live their lives again, they wouldn't change it for the world!

The fiery youth of age! Of old age! A new lease of life. They had no regrets, the old'uns.

The skinflint boss rubbed his hands in glee. Perhaps he also felt the transforming power circulating from the red-hot flames. Perhaps he also greedily inhaled a whiff of rejuvenation streaming from the trio of miners. A good omen of contagion! A sign of great prosperity to come!

He amiably fell in with the stranger's proposal that he join them in the merry kick-back of nostalgia. 'You're not against drinking on your own premises, I hope?'

The publican hummed and hesitated.

'At your own expense,' Tom added. 'I wouldn't like to see you break with your holy tradition.' And he mimicked a cut-throat action at his neck.

'No bloody fear of that!' said the publican, boldly.

'Well then, a double whisky for the boss,' Tom proclaimed. And as the boss set it up for himself. 'The same again for us.'

The trio of miners licked their blue-red lips, and the boss slung back his own whisky first, saying, 'I'm not averse to drinking in my own pub when the occasion arises.'

'An occasion like this deserves an occasion like this,' dribbled the bulbous-nosed one.

Hearty murmurs of assent followed by hearty murmurs of assent. The publican hastily swallowed another double whisky which blatantly exceeded its measure. How well could he hold his drink? Not very well, noticed the stranger. The kick-back of nostalgia somehow got cramp in the process, and the publican's face turned pasty against the rosy glow of the old'uns. A trickle of trivial syllables tottered on his tongue.

The open coal-fire started to dwindle. The flames turned sickly yellow, and slowly sagged. Inwards on themselves they collapsed, drawing in the last flickering tongues. The group huddled in silence, as nostalgia was laid to rest. Its cramp flew out like an uncaged bird.

Lethargy seemed to have come to roost on the skinflint-boss. It was sufficient for the generous salesman. He got to his feet with a cumbersome effort, almost elbowing one of the drunken trio into the dying fire. He lurched over to the sluggish publican, and slapped the price of his self-indulgence into his hand. 'No thanks to you, Mac, but that one's on me. Up your fuckin' tradition!' And he again mimicked a cut-throat action.

He bid a hearty farewell to the by now dozing fraternity, and staggered out of the tired pub.