8: The Case Is Altered
‘LOMBARD’ is an acronym. It means – 'loads of money but a right dick' and it’s what he called all the second homers.
You can catch up on Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and 7
RECAP: The funeral was pagan as hell and Jocasta managed to convince the entire village to sacrifice Christmas to say goodbye to my dad. I watched Jocasta steal a tear from Janine, and Filby said I must stay in Sowen for the will reading.
December 25th, 1992 cont’d…
The Case Is Altered, or The Case, as everyone calls it, is one of two pubs in Sowen Harbour. The other is on the harbour front. The Jolly Sailors has a large outside seating area, perfect for watching the sun set over the marsh. Its age and location make it the first choice for all the second homeowners of Sowen Harbour. Those Londoners would never dream of drinking at The Case. Likewise, my dad shunned The Sailors.
“Why would I endure Trevor Lombard at the Sailors when I can have a much more interesting chat with Neil at The Case?” he’d say.
‘LOMBARD’ is an acronym. It means – loads of money but a right dick and it’s what he called all the second homers.
In the pictures I have seen of it, the original Case Is Altered was as beautiful as the Tudor Courthouse opposite - black beams, an overhanging upper floor, and leaded light windows. But that Case was burnt down in the 60s. The new Case has absolutely no charm. It is an ugly brick building with plain windows and no distinguishing features. Its two rooms are lined with ginger pine slats and polystyrene ceiling tiles - yellowed by thirty years of nicotine and tar. I pushed the thin door open easily and Neil straightened from the sports pages to greet me.
“Well, blast me you doon’t half look like yer dad.”
“Oh okay. I don’t know if that’s something a girl really wants to hear, is it?” I smiled back.
“Sorry I couldn’t come. Been ev’so busy in ‘ere.”
I sat at the empty bar and looked at the upside-down bottles racked on the wall behind Neil.
“What’ll you ‘ave then? On me.”
“Really? Okay thanks. Can I have a whisky and coke, please?”
“Best make it a large oi reckon,” he winked.
“Be rude not.”
“Just like your dad.”
Gradually the pub filled with locals, removing ties and loosening shirts. Beth walked in, followed by George and soon the two rooms were athrong with folk talking loudly over each other.
On the wall next to the toilet hung the Melody Machine. ‘Jukebox’ would be elevating its status. It was a veneered box with titles on paper slips, slotted into plastic display boards. Homeward Bound by Simon and Garfunkel played.
More drinks were sent my way along with hugs and stories of my dad, told and retold. A hefty woman with dyed auburn hair passed me a cigarette and pulled a stool next to mine. Elaine Walters’ family have farmed the fields around Sowen for centuries. When it comes to village gossip, ‘what she doesn’t know isn’t worth knowing,’ as Eve would say.
“Of course, but you know I’m very close with Doctor Cooper.”
How would I know that? I hardly know Elaine Walters, but I nodded anyway.
“Apparently,” she said, “it’s a pagan folk practice to lie down naked with the dying. Of course, you’ll know that, but I was fascinated to hear about it.”
I gulped my fourth or fifth free whisky and coke as the scattered conversation of the people sitting either side of us lulled. The looser I felt the more I worried. If something on one of these tables – a glass, a lighter – made its way up into the air, I would feel mortified and exposed. Strangers though most of them were to me, they had pulled me into their warmth and offered me comfort. To them I was just Charlie’s girl. Could I hold it together long enough to be one of them? I crossed my legs and tuned in to what Elaine was saying.
“Doctor Cooper says your mother lay naked as the day she was born on the bed holding your dad, like a baby. Like a mother and baby. Legs wrapped around him like he might run away. Course, you know Cooper, he’s a mild-mannered man and like me, he judges nobody but even he was fascinated to see such an unusual ritual. Holding the dying. Naked as the day you were born. Isn’t that interesting?”
By now the neighbouring drinkers were gripped and agog at Elaine’s extraordinary story. She went on.
“Of course, I respect everybody’s…. ways. We’re all god’s children…”
“Goddess,” said George.
I drank again, wishing I could exit unnoticed, but Elaine picked up the pace and the listeners closed in.
“You know Tom. Lives opposite the café. Short hair. Drinks down the Jolly Sailors with that other chap. What’s his name. Tristram? Christian? The one with the house up the coast road that comes up from London. Anyway, his wife, Julie..”
“Whose wife?”
“Tom’s wife. Julie. They live opposite the café. She says she was in the café last week and there was a young woman in the queue with her little one, in a push chair. Child was about 3 or 4, too old to be in one of those buggies if you ask me but I’m not here to judge. In comes Jocasta, walks straight past the whole queue, and slams her money on the counter, bold as brass, fiver in her hand, bangs it on the top for her coffee. Not a coffee mind you, but a bag of coffee beans, which they don’t actually sell to customers. But that’s fine, sometimes you run out of something, and the shop in’t gonna have beans. Anyhow, she reckons she doesn’t have to queue since she’s not buying a drink. Fair enough. This girl steps forward to say something. She says, Excuse me, you can’t just walk past everyone. There is a queue.”
Sucked in breath all round. Silence. I looked around at the shocked faces.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Neil.
“Where she from then? Not Sowen?” asked the old man with the veiny nose.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” said Elaine. “Julie said Jocasta was so gracious about it. Didn’t make a scene. She got her coffee but just before she left she bent down to the child and asked his name.”
Someone whistled. George shook his head. People shifted and looked down. As they all took in the tale I wondered if I had missed something. I looked into my empty glass and then at the bar. Chatter picked up again, rising like a tide, lapping at my nerves.
“Well, I’d let Jocasta Crowe in front of me in the queue any day.”
“If it weren’t for the May Queen we wouldn’t have the May Festival.”
“We’d still have it. She din’t invent May, ya fool.”
“You know what I mean. Beltane.”
“She’s a good woman.”
“Who doesn’t love Beltane? I mean. What a spectacle.”
“And she was naked?”
“With Doctor Cooper?”
“Wait, so when was this?”
Elaine went on, shifting away from me to the more enthralled drinkers and Beth edged her way in, next to me, touching my arm.
“And how are you, Cass?”
The question knocked something out of me and I felt pins pricking my eyes again. I swallowed down the knot in my throat.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“This place won’t be the same without your dad. I’ll always see him at that table with a pint in front of him, ashtray full, always the centre of conversation, talking about abbey monks this, and marsh women that, and fairy tales and folklore. I coulda listened to ‘im for hours.”
I looked down at my old boots and Beth shifted in her seat.
“He was a good man, Cass. Don’t forget that, is what I’m saying.”
“I’m trying not to.”
Finally, I said my goodbyes, which took even longer than I had dreaded: hugs, loud talking in my ear, sickly breath, and repeated requests to come back for a drink again soon. Then I was outside, cupping my hand round my clipper lighter and drawing on a cigarette. I exhaled a lungful into the cold night air and walked unsteadily down the hill, letting the whisky glow carry me past the sleeping cottages to the harbour.
I swayed slightly in the almost full wolf moon, looking at the stranded sailboats in the muddy rivulets and beyond to the marsh. I thought of my dad, his warm eyes and round face and thought how much easier all this would be if Jocasta had died instead of him.
At the bridge to The Florin I stopped, wondering when the tide would come in to fill the dry moat below. Looking down into the mud I could see Charlie lying there, three years ago.
I had been on my way to the village to fetch an order of cakes from the bakery. Beltane was just around the corner and Jocasta had arranged a parish council meeting at The Florin. It was a bright morning, and the tide was starting to trickle back home to fill the creeks and inlets of the marsh. The moat would be full by lunchtime. Noticing its return, I looked down from the bridge to see if I could catch a snail creeping up the bank away from the coming flood. Netty had pointed out evacuating snails since I was little.
“Snails want salt like we want plague,” Netty would say.
But where I hoped for snails, I saw Charlie. He was asleep on his back, arms folded comfortably across his chest, as if he had climbed into bed for a nap.
“Dad,” I said. “Dad, get up. The tide’s coming. What are you doing down there?”
He didn’t even stir. Panicked, I ran back into the courtyard and shouted for help. Jocasta arrived swiftly and followed me out to the bridge.
“We have to get him out,” I said.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” said Jocasta “Wait here.”
She marched off to the village.
Sea water was shimmering around him, now an inch deep and climbing. I shouted down at him but there was no sign of consciousness, so I climbed over the wall into the long grass and began sliding down the steep bank to the mud. Venturing forward with one foot I tried to lower myself into the moat, but the shiny grey sludge enveloped my trainer, forcing me to remove it. From above I heard Jocasta’s approach but there was no rush or urgency in the sound. Instead, casual chatter.
“I see,” a man said, “You mean to move the whole coronation to the bridge?”
“Well, I wonder,” she said, stopping on the bridge. “What do you think, Morris? Good idea or no?”
I saw Jocasta’s nails resting on the bridge wall, tapping playfully, as the Parish Council Chairman stood next to her, considering something.
“I suppose it could work,” he mused, “The crowd wouldn’t have quite as good a view of you but yes, it could work. Should we discuss this at the meeting later when the others are here?”
I was dumbfounded. I pushed myself backwards up the bank.
“Hello!? What are you doing?” I said, “Jocasta!?”
Jocasta and Morris turned as one and saw me and then dad.
“My god!” shrieked Jocasta, lifting her hands to her mouth, “Charlie! Darling! What’s happened?”
Morris shouted out in shock, “Good grief. Help! Help! We need help!”
Tonight, as I shivered on the bridge and watched the black sea water crawl into every crevice and crack, I felt the creeping dread of what is yet to come.
What worked for you in this chapter? What didn’t? Any errors? How are we feeling about Jocasta?
Jocasta gives serious ‘Wicker Man meets PTA president’ energy.
Oooh that last line is such a good hook for the next chapter! Another great read 😊