The Guest Master Under the Sign

In the weald

Where the border of Kent and Sussex

Lies always beyond in the forest

Joe and I found a pub that lay juked in a hollow.

The flaking sign creaked on its hinges

In the wind coming by

Through the broadleaves.

Now this was a good few years ago,

Sort of place 1970s couples

Speeding down from London

In open-topped weekend Triumphs

Would stop for lunch, but never find again.

For they would forget the name

And the deep cut road.

‘The Wicker Man’ it was,

Painted in faded gold,

The latticed corn-giant hobbying

To and fro above us.

At the drawing of bolts we first-footed inside.

It was the days of ashtrays and Double Diamond beer mats.

Fresh polished tables and old smoke.

Rightly enough, Himself was waiting, hands spread on the bar.

RAF blazer, the cravat and otter-slick hair.

Photos of the darts team ‘66 to ‘69.

And a ‘Fight Polio’ collection box

In the shape of a little boy

Hobbled in his calliper.

When we were on the tall stools long pints were pulled.

‘Yes, this is a free house. We’ve been here since I retired.’

‘Quiet this morning,’ said Joe.

‘Well, someone has to be first always

And that you both are.’

Between ticks of the clock I coughed, ‘Nice place.’

He went to the till. Returned with a card.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘A vicar sent this to me.

Used to drink a lot when he came in, occasionally.’

We took it, each by a corner.

‘Dear Ray,

A quote from Caesar for you:

‘They have figures of vast size, the limbs formed of osiers

Filled with living men, which being set on fire,

Those men perish, enveloped in the flames’

At least when we confront Golgotha

We feel over the rocks

Up that rubbled slope

To stand under the long shadow

Of the Man broken on the crooked tree.

And, when night comes

The slumped, ransomed scapegoat

Is for us dumb-heavy

With a dolmen of sorrow.

Yours, ever.’

The landlord slid it back into the mirror’s frame.

I rubbed my thumb against my fingertip

To rid them of the tacky feel,

And saw Joe doing the same.

‘I’m a Croydon boy.’ He said.

‘My wife calls me the oblate of this place.

She’s a churchgoer.

Never had much time for it.

Christmas, Easter, but beyond that…’

He looked through the gap between us

To the bullseye window and the hills to the south.

‘I’ve often wondered how they did it.

Tricky to get the right tension when you plait willow.

A lot of ash lathes also,

When they lapped the frame.

There would have been specialists

Men who wove eel traps,

Called from up the weirs,

To do the belly, when the legs were stood

On the beacon above here.

Of course, the smoke has to be managed,

Or the hostage may choke, before the flames

Lick up the straw thighs.

His screams are the best kindling for the final blaze.

He writhes in the cunning-meshed basket.

It creaks as he tries to palm himself between a seam,

To find an opening in the tight rushes,

Like an eel, but there is no way out.’

Mine host flicks his eyes. ‘Another one gents?’

Joe and I never spoke of that morning

Wildering north of Burwash.

I heard the pub is a house now,

And long before, the name was changed.

Steven O’Brien