made—crackers had not been enough. Almost to Mildenhall, I said, “We could stop for a sandwich. The Wheaten Cairn is coming up.”
The headlights illuminated the sign as we pulled in—a terrier standing on a bench as if being judged at a show, and the pub’s name above in Old English lettering. We dashed from car to door through splattering rain.
The Cairn sat at the edge of one of the few hills thereabouts and looked south. It was a long building, but not deep. Inside the door, the lounge went off to the right, but I turned left into the tiny bar, beyond which one further room held an old upright piano, shelves of dusty books, and four little tables.
A small man in a dark suit huddled at a tiny table near the window. Michael and I approached the bar, which was barely long enough for us and the two fellows at the other end. They were watching the television on the wall as the minister of food gave a speech, and seemed to be in the middle of a mild disagreement. “No,” one of the fellows said, “I’m sure he blinked twenty-seven times in the first minute—I counted. That’s a pint you owe me.”
“It was nineteen,” the other replied. “I’d swear to it. We’ll have to watch again.”
Michael nodded to a sign that read “Kitchen Closed Sunday Evenings.” “Will they do sandwiches?” he asked.
The barman, Valentine Spore—a round fellow with a Friar Tuck fringe of hair and small eyes—appeared from the adjoining room with a tray of glasses. He broke out in a toothy smile. “Julia! Haven’t seen you in here for ages.”
“Hello, Val. How’re things?”
“We’re going great guns here,” he said as he began to pull a pint. “I’m expanding—building a hotel right next to the pub. Just waiting for the local authority to grant approval. Sure to get that now—the way is clear. You need more than just a pub these days, you know.” He looked over my shoulder. “Is Rupert with you? Rupert Lanchester,” he said to the room in general, puffing out his chest. “He’s a great friend of mine, you know. Drops in quite often.”
Val had always been a bit of a boaster. “Have you seen Rupert?” I asked.
He picked up a glass and studied it in the light before he began polishing. “I have—he was in just the other day. Let me see now—I believe it was yesterday. Rupert’s always stopping,” Val said again to the unresponsive room, “just one of my usual customers.” He turned back to us. “I had barely unlocked the door at eleven o’clock, and there was Rupert.” Val leaned over the bar. “I say, Julia, he looked a bit weary. I know it’s been a tough time for him and you, with your mum and all.”
“Was he here today?” I asked. “Did he go to Marshy End?”
Val’s eyes flickered past my shoulder to the door, as if he expected Rupert to walk in at that moment. “No, I didn’t see him today.”
“Are you sure? He could’ve stopped while you were away from the bar.”
Val barked a laugh. “I’m never away from the bar. Now, what can I get for you?”
I sighed, and Michael, who had stood still beside me, stirred. “We’ll have two pints of Broadside,” I said, “and could you do us a couple of toasted cheese sandwiches?”
“I will indeed,” Val replied.
It was a while before the evening crowd arrived, and we were spoilt for seating choices. I headed to a small round table in the further room.
“You’ve the magic touch,” Michael said.
I shrugged off the compliment. “They’re only toasted cheese sandwiches. Too bad we weren’t here earlier—the Sunday roast is not to be missed. Val keeps his own pigs in the field below, and that’s what he serves here.” The Cairn was our local pub from Marshy End, for both the production team on the show and our family. It felt a bit like home.
“Locally sourced food and drink are selling points these days. Not many publicans can boast that,” Michael said. “He should add a veg patch—he’d draw in the real-ale
The headlights illuminated the sign as we pulled in—a terrier standing on a bench as if being judged at a show, and the pub’s name above in Old English lettering. We dashed from car to door through splattering rain.
The Cairn sat at the edge of one of the few hills thereabouts and looked south. It was a long building, but not deep. Inside the door, the lounge went off to the right, but I turned left into the tiny bar, beyond which one further room held an old upright piano, shelves of dusty books, and four little tables.
A small man in a dark suit huddled at a tiny table near the window. Michael and I approached the bar, which was barely long enough for us and the two fellows at the other end. They were watching the television on the wall as the minister of food gave a speech, and seemed to be in the middle of a mild disagreement. “No,” one of the fellows said, “I’m sure he blinked twenty-seven times in the first minute—I counted. That’s a pint you owe me.”
“It was nineteen,” the other replied. “I’d swear to it. We’ll have to watch again.”
Michael nodded to a sign that read “Kitchen Closed Sunday Evenings.” “Will they do sandwiches?” he asked.
The barman, Valentine Spore—a round fellow with a Friar Tuck fringe of hair and small eyes—appeared from the adjoining room with a tray of glasses. He broke out in a toothy smile. “Julia! Haven’t seen you in here for ages.”
“Hello, Val. How’re things?”
“We’re going great guns here,” he said as he began to pull a pint. “I’m expanding—building a hotel right next to the pub. Just waiting for the local authority to grant approval. Sure to get that now—the way is clear. You need more than just a pub these days, you know.” He looked over my shoulder. “Is Rupert with you? Rupert Lanchester,” he said to the room in general, puffing out his chest. “He’s a great friend of mine, you know. Drops in quite often.”
Val had always been a bit of a boaster. “Have you seen Rupert?” I asked.
He picked up a glass and studied it in the light before he began polishing. “I have—he was in just the other day. Let me see now—I believe it was yesterday. Rupert’s always stopping,” Val said again to the unresponsive room, “just one of my usual customers.” He turned back to us. “I had barely unlocked the door at eleven o’clock, and there was Rupert.” Val leaned over the bar. “I say, Julia, he looked a bit weary. I know it’s been a tough time for him and you, with your mum and all.”
“Was he here today?” I asked. “Did he go to Marshy End?”
Val’s eyes flickered past my shoulder to the door, as if he expected Rupert to walk in at that moment. “No, I didn’t see him today.”
“Are you sure? He could’ve stopped while you were away from the bar.”
Val barked a laugh. “I’m never away from the bar. Now, what can I get for you?”
I sighed, and Michael, who had stood still beside me, stirred. “We’ll have two pints of Broadside,” I said, “and could you do us a couple of toasted cheese sandwiches?”
“I will indeed,” Val replied.
It was a while before the evening crowd arrived, and we were spoilt for seating choices. I headed to a small round table in the further room.
“You’ve the magic touch,” Michael said.
I shrugged off the compliment. “They’re only toasted cheese sandwiches. Too bad we weren’t here earlier—the Sunday roast is not to be missed. Val keeps his own pigs in the field below, and that’s what he serves here.” The Cairn was our local pub from Marshy End, for both the production team on the show and our family. It felt a bit like home.
“Locally sourced food and drink are selling points these days. Not many publicans can boast that,” Michael said. “He should add a veg patch—he’d draw in the real-ale
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