V) The Gnome

He sat immobile and erect on the third stool from the left, level
with the extra cold Guinness. His gaze travelled neither left nor right
in response to the coming and goings of the busy pub. He spoke to
nobody and nobody replied in kind.

Deb called him The Gnome. He resembled a gnome with his bright piggy
little eyes and bulbous red nose. He was small and wiry with dirty
black hair that was badly in need of a decent cut. He was an odd little
man no more than four foot tall with the strange appearance of someone
who looked as though he had once been much bigger but had shrivelled
into his body like a semi-deflated balloon. He seemed not to care that
his clothes were worn relics of a by-gone era. Polyester trousers and
wide lappelled checked shirts were his uniform and he gave no heed to
the giggles of the high fashion bimbos who stage whispered to each
other and made cruel jibes about the weird little man.

The Gnome was a man of habit. Every evening he came straight from work
and took the third stool from the left somewhere between twenty and
half past six depending on traffic. He always had the correct money for
his one pint of bitter clutched in his grimy hand. His nails were long
and blackened, underscored with dirt and pointing towards the palm of
his curled fist. His one-pound-ninety warm from being held.

Football held no interest for him and while the local louts yelled and
jeered at the wide screen television, he remained still, eyes facing
forward caring not who scored or who won. Music didn't appeal to him.
Pop, rock, country and Ballard's played to customer taste from the juke
box on the wall, but he neither tapped his dangling foot nor nodded his
head in time to any beat.

Deb was a natural flirt and chatted brightly to locals and contractors
alike as they came to lean on the bar, but something about The Gnome
gave her the creeps. Maybe it was the way his eyes had the ability to
remain devoid of expression. He was always polite, said please and
thank-you, gave her no trouble and seemed not to be unfriendly in any
way. But at the same time there was no warmth to be found in his face,
no crinkle of laughter lines at the corner of his eyes. He was
unfathomable and like a book with no cover.

Every half hour or so he would glance at the watch on his wrist and at
exactly eight thirty he would struggle down from his stool, nod once in
her direction and say thank-you before he left. Deb wondered where he
went, what the rest of his evening consisted of, if he had someone to
go home to or if he returned to a cold and unwelcoming flat. But he
didn't encourage idle chit-chat so she served him his pint and left him
to his ruminations.

So it had been for the six months she had worked at the Pheasant, and
so she expected it to remain.

Les Collier was the local gob-shite, he had a smattering of knowledge
on a large amount of subjects and liked to latch on to someone and talk
at them for a couple of hours several times a week. Presumably they
were the evenings when his long-suffering wife could stand the sound of
his droning voice no longer.

On that particular evening at a quarter past eight he was deep in
conversation with John Goldridge.

"Groats they was, Golden Groats."

John tried to maintain his lapsing look of feigned interest as he
hurried to finish the last dregs of his pint and make his escape.

"Used `em in the olden days they did. They had a couple of little rings
on em wot you pulled off and sold."

The little man on the third stool to the left of the door audibly
cleared his throat.

"Doubloons" he said

The single word was small in the noisy bar, it could have been mistaken
for a second clearing of the throat and nobody looked more surprised
that the resident figurine had spoken than The Gnome himself.

Les who was standing next to him turned so that his back was no longer
facing the man and stared.

"I think you mean Doubloons sir," said The Gnome in a small voice
devoid of expression.

"Eh?" said Les rudely. His fourth pint of extra strong lager had
already taken his conversation with John goldridge and sailed it on the
gust of a forgetful wind.

" Forgive my rudeness in interrupting but I believe doubloons are the
currency you referred to, not Groats, they were first used by the
Phoenicians who were merchant seamen trading predominantly in fine
silks. The doubloon had sixteen lugs and every time a purchase was
made, one lug would be broken off the rim of the coin, when all sixteen
lugs were taken, the coin was spent and rendered useless. That's where
the verb 'to spend' comes from."

"Really" said Les abashed and not a little pissed at being corrected.
He believed himself the font of all local knowledge and was not one to
be disagreed with. There was a moments silence in which Les tried in
vain to sum up a sensible sounding argument to come back with, but his
understanding of doubloons was underpar with that of Golden Groats,
which had already proven to be lacking. Deciding that on this occasion
a change of tactics was the better part of valour he said the first
inane thing that came into his head.

So are you a sailor then?

"No I'm a French Polisher."

"Oh right" Les was about to turn away and resume monologue with his
previous silent partner when The Gnome spoke again.

"But I've done my share of sailing."

"Pirate was you, making malt into rum and playing an accordion?"

Les laughed his derisive phlegmy laugh, but nobody paid him any heed
though several people had stopped what they were doing to listen to the
exchange between The Gnome and the local braggart. The former had a
quiet unassuming voice but spoke with air of quiet confidence that
commanded attention. People had grown used to him doing nothing than
just merely being there. The fact that he had something to say was new
and nothing much 'new' ever happened in The Pheasant on a quiet
Wednesday evening.

"Molasses; We made rum from molasses, but for the most part I was a
fisherman sir."

"Oh yeah" said Les "What did you fish?"

This was much better he was back on familiar ground and extended his
chest an extra three inch to prove it. Les often fished the canal on a
Saturday afternoon. Sometimes he even went sea fishing on his mate's
boat, so he knew what he was talking about. Everybody in town fished
sometimes that's what people did when there was nothing else to do in a
coastal town.

"I netted giant cigar fish in the Philippine Sea, and stone fish the
size of blue whale off the coast of Java. That was on a good day when
the trawl was bountiful, for the most part though we caught tuna and
squid"

This was much more Les' type of thing and he went in a drawl about the
local waters and what could be found there in.

"A pint of your finest Deborah, and whatever my friend here's
having."

The Gnome glanced at his watch. It was Eight-twenty-eight. A fleeting
look that might have been panic passed across the stone features of his
face and then was gone."

"Thank-you Sir, I have enjoyed your company, but it is time for me to
leave now."

"Rubbish man. We've just got into the Great Fishing Debate, you can't
leave now." He motioned to Deb to pull the pint.

The Gnome's eyes hardened for a second and then his shoulder's relaxed
slightly and he seemed to resign himself to whatever lay ahead.
Apparently it was decided that whatever he had to leave for could
wait.

Les began to talk, and to drink. At regular intervals more ale would be
ordered and each time The Gnome voiced his protestations and each time
he was shouted down with Les' bluster. The small wizened little man
matched Les pint for pint, and while Les became louder and gradually
turned a slur to his words. The Gnome showed no effect at all from the
alcohol.

After sixteen pints had been consumed-eight a piece- in little more
than an hour. Les groped into his pocket and scattered the remains of
his dwindled purse onto the bar top. The notes had gone and the coinage
left made scant offerings.

"I do believe it isssh your round my good man. I shheem to have been
doing all the bizz up to now. Come on let's see the colour of your
money."

The Gnome turned his black little eyes on his drinking partner and said
in the same still tone.

"I have no money Sir, only the fare for my journey home."

Les though generous when it came to buying his company was not one to
be taken advantage of. His tongue had been loosened to the point of
slackness by alcohol and his temper rose along with a sound burp.

"Well, thatssh a fine shtate of affairs innit? Jolly-Fucking-Roger here
hash been drinking wish me all night and hashn't so much ash bought a
firkin` round." He rose from his stool and spread his hands to employ
group sympathy.

"I should think itsh about time he put his hand in hish pantaloons to
stand hish round eh?"

"I am sorry Sir but I have no money." The other man repeated.

He got off his stool and made to leave when Les grabbed the much
smaller man by the oversized lapells of his shirt and pushed him back
against the bar.

"Lishten to me you." He began. "thatsh not wot we behave like here." He
got no further.

The Gnome brought both of his forearms with palms pressed together up
between the stronger man's tight hold, and with a single deft movement
spread his hands and loosed Les' grip on him.

Les staggered in retreat, knocked off balance by the speed of the
movement and the beer consumed, while The Gnome took a step backwards
also and dropped his hands to his sides.

"I bid you goodnight Sir and thank you for your company and the
beverage."

He dropped his head and made a small bow towards the room and then
nodded and passed his usual thanks to Deb before leaving the bar.

That was the night Les Collings choked on his vomit half way down
smuggler's alley. When they found him rigour mortise had made itself at
home. It was only later on the mortuary filleting table that his hand
was prised open to reveal a tarnished coin with eight notches around
it's edge -- eight more had apparently been removed.

The small trawler left the harbour lights behind and sailed into open
waters. On the prow a wizened man with small, black eyes looked back
from whence he came. His debts were all cleared and it was time to go
home.