Foggy eased himself up onto his bar stool. All the regulars knew that corner was his, and woe betide anyone who sat there during the lunchtime session. Foggy used to run this pub. He’d been the landlord for twenty years, from when he was de-mobbed until the ‘sixties, when Joan passed away. He couldn’t go on after that. He’d spent as long on the other side of the bar now, watching landlords come and go, dispensing advice to those who would listen and trying, Canute-like, to slow the tide of progress, in this pub at least.
…..He’d seen too much change. He could remember them demolishing the great Hall after the first war, and building the ugly new school in its place; but at least the heart of the village – the pub, the church and the cricket ground – still beat to the same old rhythm.
…..He laid out his daily offering of money, cigarettes and matches on the altar of the bar. Deb poured his usual pint of Mild and the way she placed it carefully before him, using both hands as if it were a chalice, reminded him of Joan. He’d pop up to the graveyard later, he thought, if the weather held.