The wheels spun on the icy track, making a grinding whining sound as the rubber failed to find traction. “Come on come on” I muttered through gritted teeth, the car didn’t listen though. The hill was too steep, the rough country asphalt too slick as another flurry of snow trickled down. The wheels spun, the clutch ground and howled but the little Ford Ka engine was taking me nowhere. Admitting defeat I took my foot off the accelerator and let myself roll and slip gently back down the hill. No-one else was stupid enough to be out in this weather so i just let it slowly take its own course back, thinking about what I could do next. This was the only road North to my Stromont House, the imposing country house currently being haunted by my sickening Aunt. ‘Silly old bitch’ I thought, why couldn’t she live somewhere sensible, somewhere less pretentious and then a half sized stately home that you need a tank or helicopter to even get to. I didn’t even want to go to the damn will hearing, everyone knew my grandma had left everything to her anyway; this was just a way of her flexing her new wealth over the rest of the family. I shuddered, thinking of that crotchety old spinster coiled up like the snake she was in her frustratingly pleasant green leather armchair. I sighed as the car came to a standstill. To be fair, the house was lovely, it was only the occupant that wasn’t and now that Grandma had gone, there was little point in fighting through all this white bullshit to get there in time.
A knock on the window brought me out of my reverie with a start, the car now safely at a stop at the base of the hill. A man was crouched next to me, waving through the slightly misted windows.
“Everything alright miss?” he asked, his pleasantly posh accent slightly muffled behind the glass. I wound it down a crack, icy air blasting through, sapping the heat from my hands almost instantly. “Do you need any help?” the man asked again, his features too blurred to get a proper view of him though it looked for all the world like he was in running kit. I wanted to confirm this but like hell was I winding the window down further and exposing myself to the elements any more than necessary.
“Well not really” I replied, pulling my sleeves up over my knuckles to protect them from the outside air.
“Car trouble?”
“Road trouble, poor thing hasn’t even got the traction to get over the hill” I said frowning.
“I’m afraid it wouldn’t matter even if it did, I’ve just come from up there and there’s a tree down about half a mile on and looking at this” he held a hound out to emphasise the snow falling lightly onto his palm “I doubt there’s any way the council is getting through to clear it today.”
“Fuck” I said, absently and a little louder than necessary. The man chuckled.
“I’d head back if I were you, there’s no way round, maybe try again tomorrow?”
“Well I can’t really go back, I’ve already been on the road 6 hours; I’ve got nowhere it’s possible to ‘go back to’. I mean, it’s just bloody typical isn’t it?” I said, slamming the car wheel in frustration. ”Six hours of driving and now that I’m only an hour away I’m stuck in the bloody snow, ready to freeze to death and die.” The man laughed, standing and stretching, making me lose my train of thought. “Are you wearing shorts?” I blurted out. He chuckled again.
“There’s nothing like a chilly run to get you ready for an evening’s work” he said, a smile clear in his voice. “Tell you what, rather than sitting here in the cold fretting, I happen to know of a good little pub about half a mile down the road, I’d be happy to show you the way?” I frowned again, a strange man getting in my car and taking me down a country lane? Seemed like the start of one of Steven Kings lesser known horrors. Before I had time to reply however he turned and waved me forward “come on, I’ll lead” how called back as he set off, jogging down the heavily hedged road I’d come up.
I couldn’t help but laugh, how delightfully innocent and somewhat bizarre. With a snap decision I slowly turned my little car and trundled off after him. I could only see his back and he didn’t turn as I caught up, content to casually continue his run as if I wasn’t even there. He was quite tall, long legs striding out in a slightly awkward gait. He was clearly a good runner, but not a natural sportsman, lacking the grace or definition in his jog that those who are born to it have. A messy thatch of long brown hair bobbed gently on his head, flecked with white snowflakes catching and quickly melting as his breathe fogged out evenly in front of him. He seemed happy, and I found myself smiling. We continued along, turning off the ‘main road’ if you could call it that and onto a smaller lane, a brown sign pointing the way to ‘The Cross Keys Public House’. Well at least he hadn’t been lying about the pub, though it was surprising that a one would be able to survive this far out in the sticks, the nearest major town was a good 45 minutes away and nothing but sleepy villages nearby. It was about as isolated as you could be in modern Britain.
We slowly drove on, the gentle flurries of snow quite beautiful in the soft light of the late afternoon. I could kind of understand why he was out running in this, it was remarkably peaceful, the high hedges on each side dark without their leaves, the trees stark in their winter dress but not intimidating or ugly. It was a perfect winter charm, soft and quiet and with a pleasantly gentle feeling to it all, the atmosphere mirroring the lightness of the snow, bringing in calm all around us. I still cranked up the heating a little though. Another brown sign pointed off the lane and we turned, him leading, onto a short dirt drive, the snow luckily not melting and so the frozen mud hadn’t quite become a quagmire just yet. We came out of the hedges and into a clearing, a large lawn concealed by white spread out on either side as the drive coiled round and down into a small depression,.
Nestled in that dip in the earth, in the middle of the large open lawn was the most perfect cluster of buildings I’ve ever seen.
Now I’ve been to London a fair bit, I’ve been to New York, Moscow, all sorts of fantastic cities with incredible sky scrapers and marvels of modern technology. This was not one of those buildings. This was a squat, thatched, wood and flagstone piece of perfection. The walls were so low, so sunken into the ground that the reed-covered roof which protruded from the main building was almost scraping the gravelled ground around it. The walls were dark stone, mottled with ancient daubing, the occasional piece of masonry crumbling off the outside. The dark wooden door at the front was half submerged, worn steps leading down, a large stack of logs leaning up against the wall next to it, protected by the overhanging roof. To the back a small copse of trees stood above the a set of ancient brick and dark wooden stables which disappeared behind the main house. The arms of the trees reached down to brush the roof lightly in the soft breeze, a coil of smoke lazily making its way up through their branches, dancing on air currents as it flowed from the large stone chimney. As I drove down to the small gravelled car-park, hearing it grind and crackle under the wheels I couldn’t help but grin. The pub exuded charm, country quaintness and a stoic Britishness that was as old as the hills it sat in. It looked like an ancient Saxon meeting hall that had survived the ages, outlived invasions and economic crashes, kings and queens, changes beyond count and would go on well beyond my lifetime. It was as part of the landscape as the grass and trees and hedges around.
I pulled to a stop beside an old beaten up Citroen 2CV and a mid-70s Land Rover. The two cars fit the aesthetic of the pub much better than the more modern collection further down, so it only felt right to park by them. In all about 6 cars including mine were there, by no means filling the gravelled space. The man came up besides my car as I pulled up and switched the engine off. “Come on in when you’re ready and make yourself comfortable, I’ll be down in a minute” and he was gone again, making his way into the squat building behind and leaving behind an air of mystery. I sat in the car for a minute, looking out at the snow falling on the bonnet. I smiled again, but I wasn’t too sure why. The windscreen misted up quickly and i put on my gloves and hat. Seeing how fast the snow was accumulating I reached back and threw on my coat too, the massive hood flapping down over my eyes, fur tickling my chin and nose as I pulled it back again. Deep breathe and out we go.
It was bitingly cold, how the hell was that man only in shorts and t-shirt? I take everything back I had previously said, this was not relaxing, this was masochistic. Even running it must have been freezing! The snow crunched threateningly under my feet as I broke into a light, precarious jog, hugging my hands to my chest as my breath fogged out in front of me as I made my way to the door round the front. The glass in the low windows was warped and ancient, impossible to see anything through but for the vague shapes of tables and a flicker of orange flame. It appeared empty. Rounding the corner I almost burst through the door in my haste to get out of the cold and immediately got tangled in a heavy curtain that was hanging over it. I flailed slightly, trying to maintain my balance as I fought to get free of the thick fabric, which clung to my coat, but alas, I am not a graceful person. I fell through the curtain backwards and landed arse first with a thump on the dark wooden floor of the pub. I sat for a second, stunned in my clumsiness before quickly hopping to my feet and looking around. Mercifully, blissfully, it was completely empty. Which I suppose just begged the question of ‘where’d the runner go?’
Dusting myself off I immediately realised the temperature difference, it was warm in the pub, beautifully warm, enough to make the skin tingle a little as I took a closer look around the room I had just fallen into. ‘Holy shit’ I thought. It was astonishing. If I had thought the outside was gorgeous, the inside was a whole other level. Far from being short and squat like I would have expected, the entire inside was open, the room going right up to the rafters, a dramatic hall with wooden walls and beams stretching up. Slightly off centre, closer to the door was an enormous stone walled fire pit, looking something like an old filled in well with flames rather than water. It was glowing quietly with a metal chimney hovering over the top, collecting the smoke and sending it up and away into the cold air outside. Around the fire was a whole collection of various different chairs and tables, an eclectic mix of all sorts of different styles and types, wooden dining chairs next to leather armchairs, little three legged milk stools balanced precariously opposite a sofa. The tables were all warped and ancient, wood and metal hulks that looked as though they were part of the building. Taking pride of place down the centre on the other side of the fire was an enormous table, thick wooden blocks bound together with black iron bands and studs, ten seats of various bizarre design down each side. Looking off to the left, the entire wall was covered in bookshelves, books upon books lining the wooden panelling in that muted yet variable colouring that is for some reason so pleasurable to the human eye. The other side of the room had little wooden booths, high walled cubby holes that looked like they belonged in some ancient church providing a more private seating experience than the rest of the eclectic tangle of chairs and tables. Hanging from the beams and roof above, and adorning the spaces of wall that weren’t covered with books was all sorts of bizarre memorabilia, knick knacks and nickabrack of all varieties; guitars, old football boots, a rugby ball, what looked like a wooden discus, violins, an old garden hoe, a small model tractor and even more bizarre instruments, sports gear and odds and ends providing a chaotic brilliance that the eyes couldn’t look away from. Finally, across the room in front of the far wall was the bar. The bar itself was wooden, growing out of the dark warped floorboards but over the bar top was a cover of burnished copper, shining, glistening in the glow of the fire and the hanging lights above. Behind it the stacks and stacks of spirit bottles stood proud, labels adding to the colour of the books, with a couple of large barrels to either side of them. One door to the right and one door to the left of the bar were the only sign that there was more to the pub than the room I was in.
I drank it, ate the atmosphere. Even empty the room felt alive with character. Looking round my eyes couldn’t settle on one thing, there was too much to see, too much to enjoy.
“Can I take your coat? Or would you rather stand in the door a little longer?” A voice shouted out from across the room. I jumped, I hadn’t noticed the man standing behind the bar opposite, watching me with a small smile. I collected myself and smiled back, weaving my way over through the mass of chairs and tables.
“The running man I assume?”
“Most people call me Hector” he replied as I made it to the bar. “Your coat?” I realised I was warm, the huge goose down jacket unnecessary with the warmth of the fire. Passing it over I looked at him properly for the first time. He was handsome, in a gentle kind of way, strong jawline with high cheek bones. His eyes were a deep brown and smile lines fought with frown lines round them. Were I at all interested in men I may have enjoyed the sight a little more. He smiled and disappeared through the bar door to hang my coat up. I took a seat on one of the high stools and peered at the beer taps, the pump clips a mix of well-known British brands and some hand written labels with names like ‘Swarvy Lighthouse’ and ‘Buddle’s Bitler’. One was called ‘I Thought Out meant Out?’ which made me chuckle.
"Admiring our tipples?” Hector said as he came back in, the bar door clacking on its double hinges.
“It really is quite the collection” there must have been 20 different beers on tap there, impressive but seemingly wildly impractical, how they received enough turnover to stay fresh in a place like this was beyond me.
“Beer’s always been a favourite of mine” he said with a smile, absently rubbing a new glass with a tea-towel “being able to brew and sell your own is a real dream come true”.
“You brew your own?”
“Oh yes, the ones like this” he tapped one of the clips which had ‘Dancing Dubin’ scrawled across it, “are brewed out the back. When we took over there were a couple of rundown stables out the back and it just made sense. You should have tried the first couple of rounds, they were utterly undrinkable.” He let out a little giggle at the memory.
“What do the names mean?” I said, frowning at the closest clip.
“Ah, well if you hang around a little while maybe you’ll find out” he had a twinkle in his eye as he placed the glass down and picked up another. “Speaking of, what brings you all the way out here? Where are you trying to get to in such inclement weather?” I sighed and looked out at the now heavily flurrying snow storm.
“I’m on my way up to Stromont, the big house up in the dales” he lifted an eyebrow but stayed quiet “I’m supposed to be up at the house this evening, but that’s looking pretty unlikely.” I sighed again “just my luck, not only do I have the stress of dealing with my bloody family, but I’ve also got to deal with them being all judgy because I’m turning up late. It’s not my fault I don’t drive a damn Chelsea Tractor.” He smiled at my indignation. “It’s a shame though; I would have liked to have been there tonight, if only to have seen Aunty Audrey’s stupid surprised face when I turned up a day early.” He looked at me for a second then put the glass down and walked over to a draw. He pulled out a bottle and two crystal glasses and poured a small amount of the golden spirit into each one.
“Not one for change is Audrey” he said with a slightly sad smile, as he came back. “So I assume you must be one of Margaret’s grandchildren then? Are you Charlie or Ash?” I was a little caught off guard
“Er, Ash”
“Well Ash, I really am sorry.” he held one of the glasses out to me. I was slightly knocked off my feet, how did he know about Grandma? About Audrey? They were absolutely not the sort to venture further than the grounds of the house so how did a random pub bloke this far from Stromont know who they were, who I was?
“Thank you?” I said, taking the glass. He held his up to me and then drained it, without knowing what to say I followed suit.
Fuck me it was good whiskey.
It tasted like a moss coated forest, one where sunlight barely penetrates. It tasted like reading a book in a wood panelled library, the smell of oak and wood-polish soft in the air as you sit in your green leather armchair. The heat of it slowly spread down my throat and across my chest, warming my insides in a way that the low fire never could, the aftertaste mellow and glowing, like the last embers in a wood-burning stove.
“Goddamn” I whispered, looking into the empty glass.
“You’ve got your grandmother to thank for that one” Hector said, taking the glass back and putting them in the sink. “She gave that to me a year ago, seems fitting to share it with her granddaughter.” I was about to open my mouth to ask a question, but there were so many jumbling around that I couldn’t get the words out before he started up again. “Right. It’s settled then. This snow isn’t going anywhere by the looks of things and that means no-one’s coming to clear the road for us, so Stromont is officially out of bounds for the night.” He slapped the bar and stood up, going over to a rack of keys hanging from a board. “If you’d like though, we have several rooms available at the back and we’ll be getting the kitchen going in an hour or so, you are more than welcome to stay for the night and then tomorrow we’ll get you back on the road, come hell or high water.” I didn’t know what to say, which was becoming a bit of a theme that afternoon.
I took a breath and thought about it, to be honest it seemed like the only real possibility, the tree meant there was no going forward, and the heavy snow meant going back was pointless. I glanced around myself, there certainly were worse places to be stuck in and perhaps it was the whiskey warming my stomach but I shrugged and smiled at the man, who grinned back, his face lighting up the room more than the fire ever could. For some reason I wanted to see where this night would go, there was a lot going on here and I’d never been one to shy away from figuring out a good story.
“Screw it, why not? How much does a room cost?” he held up his hand and turned away.
“You’re Ashley Blake, granddaughter of Margaret Blake, that makes you royalty to us, and royalty doesn’t pay.” I blinked. “Follow me, I’ll take you to your room” and with that I was staying at the Cross Keys.
***
End of Part 1