The Tuesday lunch shift was drawing to a close, and a handful of customers were finishing their drinks in the bar. Shorty and Deb were collecting glasses and emptying ash trays.

     Tom walked briskly into the room. He went behind the bar, took an envelope out of his pocket and furtively placed it in the till.

     ‘Shorty, got a minute?’

     ‘Aye, I’ll just finish this.’

     ‘Don’t worry, Deb can do it.’ Tom moved to the door marked ‘Private’ and held it open.

     ‘Okay.’ Shorty followed Tom into his office, stooping through the doorway. Shorty was six feet two.

     ‘Have a seat.’

     ‘Thanks.’ Shorty winced as he sat down.

     ‘Busy session?’

     ‘Not bad. My arthritis gives me some jip in this weather. Mind if I smoke?’

     ‘Of course not.’

     Shorty offered the pack to Tom, but he waved it away. ‘That’s a nasty cough you’ve got there. How’s your health these days?’

     ‘Fine, thanks.’

     ‘How long have you worked here, Shorty?’

     Shorty paused and cleared his throat. ‘Thirty years, on and off.’

     ‘You must have seen a lot of change.’

     ‘I think I know where this is going.’ Shorty dragged a heavy glass ashtray across the desk towards his smoking hand.

     Tom took a quick breath and delivered the line he’d rehearsed in front of his shaving mirror that morning: ‘I hope it’s not a surprise, Shorty. The pub’s busier now, you can see that, and we all know you’re struggling to keep up. Maybe it’s best to quit while you’re ahead.’

     Shorty fixed Tom with a stare. Keep still, Tom said to himself. Don’t fidget. You’re the boss.

    ‘I see,’ said Shorty, and drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘So that’s your plan. Kick out the oldies, replace us with young wenches, I’ll bet.’ He stood up. ‘Where am I going to get another job at sixty-four?’

     ‘Sit down, mate, no need to make a scene.’

     ‘Don’t ‘mate’ me, you young pup,’ spat the old man. ‘I was drinking in this pub before you were born. You’ll fucking ruin it, you will, with your bands and your quiz nights.’ He kicked over the chair he’d been sitting on and sent the ashtray skidding across the desk; it smashed into a metal filing cabinet next to Tom.

     Still Tom didn’t move. Keep your repose.

     ‘Your wage packet’s in the till.’

     ‘Thanks a fucking million.’

     Shorty stubbed his cigarette out on the carpet, scowled at Tom and slammed the door as he left.

     A minute later, Deb put her head around the office door. ‘You alright, Tom?’

     ‘Fine, thanks.’

*