MEETING CECELIA AT THE SHERLOCK HOLMES PUB, CENTRAL LONDON
This tourist-loud pub
This overpriced bar
Where the barman doesn't know
How to pour a Guinness
Let it stand - "STAND!"
I want to shout, but I don't.
I want to turn around and leave
But I won't because
It's her favourite aunt
And she suggested the pub,
Coming all the way from Blackheath
Where she's been mugged 3 times
Where one of the bastards
Bit her cheek when she
Wouldn't let go of her bag.
A group of Japanese snappers
Take digital photos of a
Stuffed Baskerville Hound,
While all around
The tables are left uncleared.
"How much? How much?
Three pounds a pint!"
In my local it's half that
For less head and more beer,
And happy hour lasts
From six to ten
For vodka and Red Bull.
"Two meals for the price of one,"
I tell the niece.
"Two meals you can't eat," she replies,
"And anyway, here's Cecelia."
I turn round to face an old bag
Woman, an orchid in her hair,
Powder on her face,
And in her hand a stick.
I stand up and offer her a drink
"A barley wine would be nice
But not out of the fridge,
And definitely no ice."
The barman who mangled my pint
Pours her drink
And then coughs over it.
"I only drink out of a wine glass,"
Declares Cecelia from behind
A German tourist's back.
"It's a Barley wine you see,"
And then she winks at me.
Winks at ME!
This is the woman who played
Mozart to her when she was six
And they danced around the
Bed-sitter in Battersea.
The woman who told her stories
Of Egypt, and diamonds,
And a captain called Rix.
Ten minutes later
She gives me a tenner
And I order more Guinness
From him, yes, that ONE!
And buy some crisps
Not 2 for the price of 1 crisps
But 1 for the price of 2 crisps
In this appalling pub
"Elementary," I say to the niece
As she looks at her change.
"I've danced with Winston Churchill,
At the Mayfair Club,"
The aunt declares to the wine,
A story even I've heard before.
This woman, this powdered mutton,
Telling her tales of oysters
In Paris, and losing her buttons
On a cruise down the Rhine.
A group of Swedes stand
Inches away from our table
How rude!' I want to boom,
Their stomachs in our faces
As they read about 221B Baker Street.
"There could've been a scene,"
She cackles, as I look beyond
The Swedes and survey
The scene in the bar room
The tables full of ashtrays
And empties, and Americans,
Video-ing the gloom of the pub.
"It looked bad at the time,"
Laughs Cecelia
As I too look at the time.
Time for one more, I think
And Cecelia smiles, her teeth
As yellow as hay.
I pat my pocket and say
"Any one for one last drink?"
And she winks at me again AGAIN!
"No more for me, young man.
But if you could point me in
The direction of the ladies
And perhaps a small cigar."
I ask the barman to pause
While he pours the Guinness
And he walks away for a full
Five minutes to make a point.
She comes back from the ladies
While I'm still at the bar,
Smelling of lavender water
And as the bell hasn't gone yet
She will have a small one
A whiskey and water.
"Are you from the Antipodes?"
She asks the barman
That one ... HIM!
As he slams the drinks down,
And when he nods Cecelia
Talks about the stars
Above Sydney, and song lines
And the colours of the Rock.
He suddenly smiles, he warms to her,
He pours tonic for her
He smiles at me at ME!
Back at the table,
While Cecelia gets a light
From a smart Indian chap,
Dressed in a tie and blazer,
And before she sits back down,
And before she says I remind her
Of a young David Niven,
The niece nods in her direction
And says, "isn't she something?"
I look at the orchid and the cane
And I have to agree,
She certainly is ... SOMETHING!
Though to be honest
It doesn't need Sherlock Holmes
To work that one out.
At 20 past 11 on the dot
The bar staff begin to
Clear the tables, the dirty tables,
The full of empties and ashtray tables
Stamping their feet a lot
Shouting and demanding our glasses
"It's 20 minutes past 11
Have you got no homes to go to?
Get out!"
The Germans look bewildered,
The Japanese leave in a group
And we try to ignore the shouts
But before we know it we're out
Out into the Charring Cross night,
Out of that tourist boozer
That fake/faux/pseudo/fuzz
With Cecelia holding on to my arm
Like I'm her date, her beau,
Her glimpse of the past
And I feel as strange as she does
At the train station I kiss
Her powdered cheek
The one the bastard bit
With my three quid a pint Guinness lips
And think about kissing her lips
Her story-filled lips.
No, stop it! Her favourite aunt
And me up to no good
It's the drink, the booze,
Her over seventy if she's a day
And me flirting!
The niece sees this
And, oh thank God!
She nips it in the bud.
I'm bundled into a cab
As the aunt disappears
Into the train station
With her orchid hair
And her powdered face
And her cane.
© Paul Fletcher
