Claire Hines, Year 13
Languid firelight lit up most of the bar, casting a heavy warmth throughout the place. The early
evening drinkers were sitting comfortably about the tables arguing amicably, the tone in the place
still fairly low. The bartender leant on the counter bickering good-naturedly with the local doctor
about the effect of a pint on the mind, and Old farmer Tom snoozed in the corner, drink in hand, with
his terrier sitting beside him patiently like he did every other night.
Then the door opened, letting in a draught of icy air and a lad with tousled dark hair and wild eyes.
His breath came in puffs of condensation as he paused on the threshold, his cheeks red as roses.
Closing the door with an angry bang behind him, he crossed the room quickly, sat at the counter and
said: “Guiness please.”
The bartender got the drink, curiosity dancing about his face, and all stared at the stranger. He sat
unmoving, oblivious to the searching glances of the usuals, staring seemingly at nothing at all. The
bartender put the drink down in front of the boy cautiously, and the latter took it and started to
drink without a word. Gradually conversation resumed, and eyes turned away from the lonely figure
at the bar, still drinking in silence. Soon he was forgotten, and the tone rose as the second, and then
third, round of drinks was distributed and drunk. Just when the lad was all but completely forgotten,
the door opened again. Not one, but several boys stepped in this time, led by one who was louder
and bigger than the rest. “God it’s cold out!” He yelled across the room, and they all went to occupy
a table by the fire with loud exclamations of satisfaction at the heat. “Bring us a pint each guv’nor!”
Ordered the loud one, and the others took up his request avidly. As the bartender stiffly collected
glasses and bottle, the group started talking loudly, regardless of the rest of the bar’s occupants.
“How you holding up Louis?”
One of them ran both hands through his fair hair. “She certainly didn’t mince her words…”
“She’s a bitch is what she is.” Asserted the leader loudly, and the rest of the group voiced their loud
agreement. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the bartender, and they drank to the
health of the unfortunate Louis with great vivacity. It was the leader who resumed the discussion:
“I declare there’s no bigger bitch this side of the fens than Grace Lewison. Thinks so highly of herself
she’s forgotten she’s not the only girl in this world. You’ll find another Louis, here’s to you!”
Unnoticed by anyone, indeed forgotten by all, the boy at the counter had perked up at their entry,
and followed the exchange intently. Now he went red with blind rage, rose from his seat with
surprising force, and stalked over to the group by the fire. All laughter there ceased as he stopped
before them and asked in an icy tone: “What was that you just said about Miss Lewison?”
The leader looked him up and down scornfully, picked up his drink, and announced: “I said she’s the
biggest bitch this side of the fens, isn’t she boys?” This was followed by boisterous laughter that died
the moment the stranger opened his mouth and ordered: “Get up.”
The leader got up with a sly grin, tainted with uncertainty, and was met with a resounding blow
across the face. Reeling with shock and loss of balance, the leader fell backwards heavily, crashing
over his chair and hitting the floor at the same time as his glass. Amidst the smash and yell that
followed, the other boys extricated themselves from their seats and took up his shout. All semblance of disinterest about the bar was gone; all eyes were fixed on the knot of lads sending panicked
shadows dancing wildly about the walls.
The leader got angrily to his feet, pushing off the helping arms, and shoved his way through the
group of boys standing about him to the stranger.
“You bloody bastard! I’ll kill you!”
The stranger half closed his eyes and declared: “Go ahead and try.”
Face red with shame, and the mark of the stranger’s hand across his face, the furious leader leapt at
him with murder in his eyes. The stranger met him viciously, and soon both were on the ground,
punching, panting, and choking, the boys forming a noisy ring around them. The leader had the
stranger pinned down below him now, and struck him angrily in the face again and again. The
stranger shielded his face as best he could with his flailing arms, but gradually they dropped, and he
lay still. The boy called Louis and another finally restrained the leader, and pulled him away, leaving
the stranger inert and bloody-faced on the ground. There was a deathly silence in the bar,
interrupted only by the leader’s panting. He looked down at his attacker, and thought he might be
sick.
“Let’s go.” He muttered breathlessly, and stumbled to the door with his friends close behind.
As the door clanged shut, the bartender and two of the usuals approached the stranger. He was
dragged into a chair, and cold water splashed in his face until he revived. He gasped and spluttered,
and tried to clear the blood from his battered face with shaking hands. A glass of brandy was held to
his teeth, and he nearly choked as he drank it, but it steadied his hands somewhat.
A wet towel was shoved in his hand and he cleaned his face slowly until he could see a little out of his
swollen eyes.
“Christ lad, what did you do that for? This Grace Lewison your sister?”
The stranger replied softly: “She … was my girl.”
“Was? Then why in the name of heaven did you defend her like that?”
The boy looked down at his cut hands and replied: “I don’t know.”
In his corner by the fire, Old farmer Tom slept on undisturbed.
