Snuff

'Y'can put a drop in there if y'like, Arthur'
George watched happily as the landlord poured the dark brown ale.
'Y'can't beat a pint o'the 'Old Faithful''
Cyril, the nurseryman, and Wilf, George's shepherd, both nodded in
silent agreement. They were the only customers in the cozy snug of the
Farmer's Rest.
Arthur quietly picked up a cloth and began to dry the freshly washed
glasses, unhurriedly examining them before they went back on the shelf.
After a while it was Wilf's turn to push forward his empty glass, and
Arthur reached for the mahogany pump handle, worn smooth by the
years.
'Ta, Arthur'.
Wilf's collie, Taff, looked up at the sound of his voice, and Wilf
reached down to stroke his ears.
Eventually the men shrugged into their heavy coats and took their
leave, and Arthur locked up behind them and sat at his own bar to enjoy
a pinch of snuff before going to bed.

Some time later when old Arthur died, the pub passed to his only
relative, his nephew Ronnie, who was disgusted by the lingering scent
of Arthur's snuff. He demolished Arthur's old rooms, and transformed
the bar into a bright open-plan restaurant. The snug where the old men
used to sit was reduced to a bench round the etched bay window. The pub
got a new name, The Jolly Pheasant, and before long the customers were
arriving in droves to eat at the old country pub.
Meanwhile, George, Cyril and Wilf would sit at the window and gaze at
the diners, bemused by their city talk and fancy clothes, while Ronnie
glared at their work clothes and filthy fingernails. One night, Wilf
arrived, peering round the door to see if Ronnie was around, when he
saw George and Cyril standing at the bar, looking grave. He sneaked in
quickly and secreted Taff under the table as usual.
'What's up?'
George indicated the old hand pump. The crimson enamelled 'Old
Faithful' sign had been replaced by 'Briggs Special 80/- Ale'. Wilf
stared at it in disbelief.
'He can't have' he whispered.
'Oh yes I can!' Ronnie appeared, grinning gleefully at the old men's
dismay.
'It's only you three who drink that disgusting Old Faithful stuff. We
have to move with the times'
'But, but- ' Cyril spluttered.
'Old Faithful's been the ale here since Arthur owned the pub!'
Ronnie stared coldly at George. 'Arthur's gone, and so is that horrible
old beer'
And so the old men's evenings grew ever more uncomfortable, as The
Jolly Pheasant became the place to be seen. It was inevitable that
there would be trouble, and it happened one night when a glamorous
looking woman caught sight of the men in the window alcove and began to
grin in delight.
'Gosh! Are you really farmers? I've never seen a real farmer
before'
Cyril shook his head. 'What do you do for a living then, m'duck?'
The woman shook back her shiny hair and stood up importantly.
'I work in the city, for a solicitor' she said.
'What do you do' George murmured, 'Hold her handbag while she's
working?'
Wilf spat his beer all over the table, while Cyril threw back his head
and guffawed. It took a moment for the penny to drop, then the woman's
face turned as pink as Cyril's fuschias, and she and her companions
glared at the old men and turned to leave. Ronnie came bustling
out.
'Ladies, I'm so sorry! Please, have a drink. On the house'
He escorted the women away, scowling at the old men.
'That were a good one, George' Cyril said appreciatively, winking at
another lady waiting at the bar. As he leaned back, he disturbed a
black beetle who had been resting happily in the band of his hat. The
woman screamed as the beetle stomped across the bar in his shiny black
armour, and her boyfriend tried vainly to squash it with a beer mat.
Wilf continued to laugh, and Taff leaned out from under the table to
see what all the fuss was, and found himself in the darkness under
another woman's skirt. The screams and hullabaloo brought Ronnie back,
his face now purple.
'Get that bloody dog out of here!' he yelled, eyes bulging.
Wilf was now crying with laughter, and Ronnie was beyond anger as his
customers stormed out in disgust.
'Right' he hissed. 'That's it. I've had it with you old codgers, coming
in here in your filthy work clothes and your black fingernails,
annoying the customers. Go on, finish up your drinks and get out.
You're barred!'
'You can't bar us!' Cyril exclaimed. 'We've nowhere else to go'
'You can go down the working men's club with the other old men!'
The three men stared at Ronnie for a long moment, and then, as one,
they put down their drinks and stood up.
'Old Arthur would turn in his grave if he could see this' George said
quietly.
'Arthur's dead' Ronnie said coldly. 'He's not coming back'

Later that night a gale got up, and despite the heating being up full,
and a fire roaring in the grate, a freezing draught was blowing through
the restaurant. Ronnie had tried twice to pull a pint of his 80/- ale,
only to have the pump spit at him, though the barrel was still full.
Someone had put the heat up too high under the Stilton soup, and the
entire pot had curdled, while the oven hadn't been hot enough, and the
roast beef was underdone. Customers were complaining, and Ronnie was
trying to smooth things over when one of the kitchen staff tugged at
his sleeve. She was a girl of around eighteen, and he glared at her,
exasperated.
'What is it now!'
'There's an old man in the kitchen. He's making toast.'
'What? Well, get rid of him!'
'I tried, but he ignored me. He's horrible, and he smells funny!'
Ronnie pushed past her into the kitchen. There was no old man there,
but the worktop was covered in crumbs, and there was a strange tang in
the air, a smell almost recognisable, almost -
A shout from the restaurant sent him sprinting through. Three of the
waitresses were standing awkwardly.
'What now?'
'We've had complaints that there's an old man sitting by the fire,
cutting his toenails'
Ronnie stared at them in disbelief.
'They say his nails have been pinging off the mirror', the youngest
waitress giggled nervously.
The fireplace was empty, but there were a few tell-tale yellow
crescents on the hearth. Just then there was a scream, and Ronnie
rushed to the corridor, where an elegant-looking lady was storming out
of the ladies loo.
'What sort of establishment is this!' she roared.
'What- what's wrong' Ronnie stammered.
'Wrong? I'll tell you what's wrong. There's a dirty old man shaving in
the ladies room!'
Ronnie tentatively opened the door. The room was empty, but the
familiar smell was here again, and there in the sink was an
old-fashioned shaving brush; the kind with a horn handle and
salt-and-pepper bristles. He picked it up gingerly, and realised all at
once what the peculiar smell was.
'Arthur?' he whispered, glancing around in trepidation. 'Is that
you?'
He heard a click, and realised that the door had locked behind him. As
his heart began to thud in panic, he caught sight of a face and let out
a howl, only to realise that it was his reflection in the mirror. As he
sighed in relief, the window slammed open against the wall, and the
gale threw the net curtains at him. He gasped, as a pale mist began to
creep into the room.
'Arthur!' he yelled, almost in tears. 'I'm sorry! What is it you
want?'
The mist came towards him steadily, and he could smell the sharp tang
of snuff carried on the icy wind. In terror, he pressed himself against
the wall.
'I'll change the name back, if you want. I'll even put the snug back
how it was!'
But the fingers of mist reached towards him, and he could barely
breathe.
'I'll even get the Old Faithful back, how's that?'
The mist lunged at him.
'I'll get your old pals back!' he screamed. 'Yes, They can all come
back!'
The wind quieted, and the mist receded gently. Ronnie gasped for
breath, his whole body shaking. The curtains fell again, and he sighed
in relief.
My God, he thought. Did I dream that?
With shaking fingers he tried the door, and the handle turned. He
sighed again, and looked back at the window.
It was only the wind, he told himself. Only the wind, and that window
must be loose. He'd been overdoing it lately, he was imagining things.
He gave a little nervous laugh.
And to think, he was about to allow those reprobate old men back
in.
He screamed in terror as the shaving brush leapt from the sink to hover
an inch from his face like a malevolent insect. He stared cross-eyed at
the angry bristles while his heart tried to escape his chest.
'O-only kidding' he gasped.
The brush spun away and out of the window, which slammed shut behind
it.

Wilf gazed at the sun setting over the dusty barley field, absently
stroking Taff's head, while Cyril leaned against the new snug wall. It
was cozy again, perhaps even cosier than before. He took a long pull of
his pint and sighed.
'It's time Jones had that barley in' he said, and the other two nodded
amiably.
George gazed out at the new pub sign. On it, a shirt-sleeved farmer
leaned against a hayrick, a sandwich in one hand, a pint pot in the
other. Ronnie followed George's gaze. The sign had been expensive, but
so what. In the last six months he had made more money than he could
have imagined. The diners liked the new snug, and he supposed they must
think it had been there for a hundred years. The old men were happy,
and, if truth be told, so was he.
'Another of your finest, Ronnie' Cyril passed up his empty glass.
Ronnie pulled two pints slowly, the ancient wood warm beneath his
fingers. He carried the glasses to the window table. The sun had set
now, and the sky was a field of orange.
'I wonder where old Arthur is tonight' George murmured.
'Probably up on some cloud' Cyril grinned, 'enjoying a pint same as
us'
Ronnie raised his glass in the air. 'Here's to Arthur' he said. 'May he
be happy wherever he is, and never get upset again'
The old men looked at him.
'What you talking about, Ronnie?' Cyril said. 'I never saw Arthur
upset, not as long as he lived'
Ronnie nodded slowly. 'You're right, Cyril.
Not as long as he lived.