Boadicea's Chariot

He was the sole occupant, his left hand grasping the remains of a pint that was resting on a small copper-topped table, its polished surface weakly reflecting the evening sun through a puddle of what looked like blood, but was probably only Campari. The key was placed carefully away from these dregs, lying half concealed by his leather driving gloves. Nobody wears them any more, but in the early sixties they were still an accessory to be admired, an indication of a certain wealth, or at least of breeding, in the owner.

I had followed his instructions to the letter, turning left off the A3 at the Malden roundabout, and heading south towards Worcester Park. His directions had been accurate, The Plough coming into view on the right almost immediately after I had passed under the railway bridge. I had pulled across the traffic into the car park and rushed into the bar. Mine host had looked up expectantly, but I had already seen what had to be the Snug; a small room half-hidden behind the fireplace. Progress has since replaced it by a modern extension of the restaurant, but in those days it was a lovingly preserved adjunct to the old building, roughly built from local stone, with two tiny windows and ancient wooden bench seats, now comfortably covered with deep red cushions. Continue reading “Aunt Lisl comes to stay”