Our pals at Deserter recently published Deserter Stories, “the third and final book in the Deserter Quartet”. A cornucopia of short stories involving various idlers, losers, dreamers, schemers and charmers, it’s a sublime collection of tales of the sordid, sorrowful and sloshed — and makes for the perfect reading companion in your face London boozer. (Or indeed, slumped in an armchair.)
To give you a tantalising draught from the literary pint glass, we’re reproducing the entirety of the first story, The Publican, in full — with Part One below (and Part Two now available here).
We’ve also thrown in a map of the pubs mentioned in this brooding tale; try them one by one, or do the lot as a literary pub crawl. (In real life, the Alley Cats is Andy’s own pub, the Shirker’s Rest).
The Publican by Andrew Grumbridge (after The Swimmer by John Cheever): Part One
Fresh off the train to Charing Cross, around lunchtime, a thought pressed itself into the mind of Gavin Pellegrino. Or maybe it had been there all along but was now awakened. That thought was: a pint at The Harp.
He’d met a young woman on the train and they’d struck up a long conversation. It had invigorated him and he was in the mood for celebrating. What was it she had said when they parted? ‘Aren’t you lovely? I really enjoyed talking with you.’
He rolled the words around in his head. Perhaps he should have invited her along for a drink. Mind you, she must have been half his age. If he’d been twenty years younger they’d have probably eloped, he told himself.
He crossed the Strand in a lull in the traffic and did a little skip up onto the pavement on the other side. He was, despite his age, still sprightly. Anyone looking would have seen a dapper, handsome man with grey in his hair but joy in his step. His bright eyes and jaunty lope radiated optimism. His wife used to say it was his optimism that kept him youthful.
He turned into Adelaide Street and The Harp came into view, its large front window open to the street where a few customers leant on the brass counter. Oh my, what a sight. Here, perhaps, was another reason he hadn’t asked the young woman to accompany him. He loved to savour this moment, this pub. Somehow it wasn’t the place for small talk. Not at first anyway, not until you had drunk in the people and the surroundings, not to mention the ale. Back in the day, he’d often arrive twenty minutes early to meet friends, just so he could have a little time alone in lamp-lit pub glory.
His own pub, the Alley Cats, lay some five miles south east, in New Cross. He was on his way there but it wouldn’t be open for a couple of hours or so. It wasn’t a busy city pub like The Harp. Indeed, you might say the two had little in common. Good beer, of course. Conversation, perhaps, if the mood took you. But on the wall at the Cats he’d hung a little picture of The Harp. A tribute, in his own way, to what The Harp had achieved, and achieved every day.
He ordered, as he always did, a pint of Hophead and took the last stool at the open window. It was warm. Very warm for October. He could feel the heat from the pavement. Passers-by, intent on their personal quests, wore t-shirts and summer dresses. Get it while you can, he thought, as he removed his jacket. It won’t last forever. The day, like Gavin the man, you could say, seemed to foretell a rich, warm autumn.
‘Lovely day,’ said the man next to him in a pin-striped suit and Michael Caine spectacles.
‘Well, we’re in the pub,’ said Gavin, genially.
‘A lovely day to be in the pub,’ agreed the man, and they raised their glasses.
Another idea came to him, as they often did with a glass in his hand. Perhaps he could, in a way, stay in the pub. Instead of getting the train straight to New Cross, he might walk. Walk, bask in the day and take in some of his favourite watering holes along the way. Why not? He was in no hurry and this was precisely the sort of mock-heroic escapade that people would expect from Gavin Pellegrino, good old GP, doctor at large. No-one could say he wasn’t fun, maverick even.
He began mapping out a route in his head; a trail through south London studded with favourite pubs. He could see how they were getting on at the Waterloo Tap. Stop off for one at that little place at the Elephant, the Yak. There was the Hermits Cave at Camberwell, of course. Maybe the East Dulwich Tavern? He couldn’t leave out the Blythe Hill Tavern, that would be madness. Perhaps he could incorporate it by getting the bus there from East Dulwich, and then heading back on himself via The Ivy House and Skehans.
What was that, seven pubs? Eight if you included the Alley Cats. Well, he couldn’t have a pint in each, not if he was going to be of any use helping Aidan behind the bar later. Aidan was a very capable manager but Friday nights were always busy, what with the open mic crowd in. But maybe a half? Yes, that would do it. A half in each. Perfect. It was set.
He looked around at his fellow drinkers. They seemed happy enough. Some might have to return to the office shortly. Some might be going shopping or to the theatre. But not one of them, he was certain, was going to drink their way across town to their own pub. He must have been smiling because a passer-by gave him a thumbs up.
‘Right,’ he said, standing up and draining his drink. ‘I’m going to more pubs.’
‘Amen,’ said Michael Caine.
Gavin was a fast walker. Some years ago a doctor had said to him, in the context of maintaining good health, if you’re going to walk somewhere, why not walk a little faster? And it had stayed with him. But crossing the river from Embankment he slowed to a saunter to admire the views down the Thames. The tide was fully in and at that point when the water was almost still. You could see your reflection in that, he thought. Or go for a swim. A cool breeze blew along the exposed river channel; a reminder of the precariousness of this Indian summer. But Gavin hardly noticed. His day’s new purpose had made him almost light-headed with happiness. What a treat. He was reminded of something another doctor had said to him, more recently: be kind to yourself.
The main outside seating area at the Waterloo Tap lies beneath a railway viaduct. It had started with a couple of poser tables for smokers and had now grown into a fully fledged covered beer garden. What luck they had had with that space. Being allowed to spill into it must have doubled or tripled their capacity. At the Alley Cats they had just the tiniest sliver of ‘demised curtilage’ — as the council planning department referred to its outside space — in the form of a side passage. But no matter, he had put out a coffee table, an armchair, stools and a standard lamp with an animal print shade and dubbed the alley the ‘Leopard Lounge’, which had gone down well on the pub social media.
‘You’ve turned a bug into a feature!’ Aidan had said when he’d seen it, giving him a slap on the back. And all of them, Sandie, Rhea and Archie had gathered there for a beer and a group photo on opening day. How he loved those guys. They were like a family to him. He was proud to give them a livelihood. Nice people to spend time with, to boot. A nice life.
Gavin finished his half, a pale from Burning Sky, and headed past the station and down Waterloo Road, his jacket held by a finger and slung over his shoulder. It was a smart woollen blazer, hunter green, though if you looked closely you could see where moth larvae had been at it.
He navigated his way across the confusing amalgam of busy roads, pedestrian precincts and new builds at the Elephant & Castle. He recalled his next destination, Feed the Yak!, had started life as the Tap In, housed in a shipping container next to the old Heygate Estate. There were a couple of wacky pub names, right there. Mind you, he could talk. ‘Alley Cats’ wasn’t exactly traditional. And he understood how having an off-beat name could make you stand out from the big boys, the pub chains. And if you didn’t stand out from the big boys, well you didn’t have a chance.
On arrival, he ordered a half of Deya’s Steady Rolling Man, another favourite. Not unlike himself, he considered. Steady, solid and dependable. It wasn’t cheap though, and he wondered how people could afford a night out at those prices. In his pub he kept an inexpensive beer for those watching the pennies. Once he’d been poor himself, and thankful for pubs that did the same.
He was pleased to see a few people standing in the bar, chatting, as it should be. Maybe they were from the new flats in the area, having knocked off work early. He was a proponent of the idea of a pub being a community hub, a nucleus. Like the Yak, the Cats was a small premise, which meant he had to keep it filled. If you can only fit in thirty people downstairs then you need to keep the party going.
Which was fine by him. He’d always loved a party. The partying had stopped as he’d got older – got married, had children – but in his heart he wanted it to go on and on. At the Cats, the party was alive, or at least a constant possibility. Embers could be fanned into life at any moment. Perhaps the music students from Goldsmiths would waft in, with their baggy togs and instrument cases. Or the lecturers, or the comedians, or the beer tickers… Even the book club had its moments.
Yes, he’d found a way to keep the party going. What must it be like, he wondered, as a proud man, a sensitive man, to lose what you love, to have pulled from beneath you the very ground that supports and nourishes you? He shivered.
After the Yak, he could have caught countless buses down the Walworth Road but he was happy to walk. It’s by no means a beautiful road, with its once grand terraces altered by shopfront extensions, but it was familiar and led him down to Camberwell, his old patch, his old stamping ground. It was like striding into his past.
He cut across Camberwell Green and down Church Street to the Hermits Cave. He checked to see if the sign on the wall was still there: ‘Best Beer Around Here’. It was and it made him happy.
As he went to push the door it was pulled open by a familiar face, old friend and neighbour Ollie Fisher, and behind him his short and, Gavin thought, rather sour-faced wife.
‘Well! Look who it is! Hello, Doc,’ said Ollie, reaching out his hand. ‘Ollie!’ said Gavin.
‘Long time, no see. What’s going on? I mean… are you better?’ At this Ollie’s wife struck her husband on the arm with the back of her hand, but she nevertheless looked expectantly at Gavin for his answer.
‘I’m always getting better,’ said Gavin with a wide grin.
‘Well, well…’ said Ollie. ‘Who’d have thought it? Doctor in the house.’
‘We don’t have any more money, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ said his wife, whose name Gavin was pretty sure was… no, it had gone. It was Ollie’s turn to silence his spouse, which he did by putting his arm around her and almost pulling her through the door.
‘We’d stay for a drink but we need to get back to the shop,’ he said. Gavin watched them benignly as they walked away. Ollie Fisher turned to give Gavin one last look, as if he could scarcely believe what he’d seen. And then turned away again, shaking his head.
At the bar Gavin ordered a half of Verdant’s Penpol from a barman so silent and expressionless that Gavin thought for a moment he might be a cardboard cutout. How unlike the reception you’d get at the Cats. Personability, personality, they count for so much in the pub business. Some have it, some don’t. Gavin considered it as much his stock-in-trade as the beer.
He was informed that the barrel was being changed and offered the choice of waiting or choosing something else. He elected to wait. He still had plenty of time. He glanced at his wrist but remembered he no longer wore a watch. It must be around three o’clock, he thought. Aidan, too, would be down in the cellar over at the Cats, turning on the gas and swapping out the spiles before opening up.
He took the opportunity to give the beer board the once-over. A tad more expensive than the Cats, which was to be expected, and a few too many multinational company beers on the taps for his taste, though the cask offering was as solid as ever. Best beer around here, indeed.
Deserter Stories is available to buy now.
