“I thought this was The Bear at Bridge Foot?” said Clive, staring up at the pub’s sign. The pub was at the foot of the Bridge right enough, back on the Southwark side where Clive had come from earlier (he was starting to feel it was just not in his stars to actually make it across the Bridge into London proper), but the sign now bore the image of a duck, upside down in a pond with its legs in the air. It didn’t look like it was bobbing for tidbits: it looked dead. The name above the door, wreathed in vines to indicate that good honest vino was served within, was also pretty unequivocally ursaless: it now said ‘The Lousy Duck.’
image [https://deadpubs.co.uk/BearInn1616.gif]
Jerry looked rather awkward. “Ah. So she wasn’t bluffing.”
Clive furrowed. “Who wasn’t bluffing? I came this way earlier – it was definitely ‘The Bear’ then.”
“Yeah, well, she changed it, didn’t she?”
“Who changed it?”
“The bloody sheila who owns the pub.”
“Her name is Sheila?”
“No, it’s Milly, actually. But she’s still a bloody sheila.”
“I’m confused.”
“Habitual for you, Clive. Come on.”
The pub formerly known as The Bear at Bridgefoot was a large establishment with its own courtyard, and had at least three entrances: one via a gallery leading down steps to the small landing berth for riverboats; one via the courtyard on the street side; and one main door into the pub itself. It was the courtyard entrance that our two likely lads took now. Clive rounded the corner to find himself facing a large circle of hay with smaller circles of black string woven into it. An arrow thudded into the hay adjacent to his ear.
“Swounds, I missed! Clear out of it, will you!” came a bellowed shout from the archer, already reaching for his tankard.
Jerry grabbed Clive by the arm and dragged him out of the firing line and between the tables towards the main building. “Just follow my lead, will you? I’ve got some business to take care of with the owner, and it ain’t gonna be pleasant!”
“You do seem awfully busy always, Jerry!”
“Yeah, well... rent to pay, Clive, rent to pay!”
The inside was nothing special, Clive thought, much like the pubs back home, just... bigger. A lot bigger. And fuller. Jerry sauntered adroitly between tables, benches and staggering patrons and up to a large rampart of a bar ringed with barrels fixed with iron studs. He leaned over the bar and leered at the buxom blonde barmaid on the other side.
“Milly! A couple of beers for me and mi new mate!”
The maid, who Clive now saw was not as young as he had first thought, though undeniably handsome, raised her eyes from the pewter tankard she was polishing, took one look at Jerry, and clocked him around the head with it.
“Owwwww!” moaned Jerry, nursing his brow with one hand. “Milly!”
Clive started – so this was the owner, the mysterious Sheila (who was actually called Milly) who had changed the pub’s name in barely an afternoon!
“And where were YOU last night, Muldoon? I waited for ages!”
“Well, you know what I say darling! If I’m late – start without me! I see you changed the name, then?”
Milly smiled nastily. “I warned you! I told you what would happen if you did this again!”
Clive couldn’t help himself. “Excuse me – you changed the name?”
Milly spoke without taking her eyes off Jerry. “‘Oo’s ’e?”
Jerry peeped at her through one eye. “Friend from out of town. His name is–”
“I’m Clive–” Clive proffered a palm “–Clive Hucklefish!”
Milly looked at his hand appraisingly but decided not to take it. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Huckledish.”
“Fish.”
“No thanks. I ain’t no Cat’olic!”
Clive’s face dropped. There was some kind of pattern forming here...
Milly looked him full in the eye. Both of them. “So you’re Jerry’s new best friend for the week, are you? You do know ‘e sold the last one?”
Clive looked at Jerry. Jerry shrugged.
“So, you was wondering about the name, was you?” Milly continued.
The pub. Clive nodded, “yes, I was wondering why–”
“Let’s ask Jerry, shall we?” Milly seethed, her tone dripping venom to the floor, “Jerry, why did I rename this pub, ‘The Lousy Duck?’”
Jerry lowered his eyes. “I had her ducked once. It was a long time ago, and I regret it.”
Clive looked from Jerry to Milly and back to Jerry. He was pretty sure now that these two knew each other.
“Oh no!” said Milly. “It wasn’t that. I forgave him for that. I told him, that if he kept cucking on me with other trulls, I would change the name of ‘The Bear’ to ‘The Lousy Duck,’ so that everyone in the land who came in ’ere and asked me about the name would know, once for all, that Gerald Muldoon is the lousiest f–”
Jerry cut her off just in time. “Alright Milly, that’s enough! You’ve made your point, had your fun! Now ’ow about those beers, eh? I’ve got business to discuss with young Clive here.”
Milly threw the rag down and stormed off towards the cellar door. “Get ‘em yourself!”
Jerry watched her go, before reaching over the counter and picking up a couple of bottles of hopped ale. “’Ell ’ath no fury, Clive! ’Ell ’ath no fury...”
They found a table next to the bar. Clive took a swig of his beer, and coughed.
Jerry grinned. “Good stuff, eh?”
Clive tried to reply, but just coughed more.
Jerry nodded. “Yeah, ’s’bit stronger than your usual brews... but I like it!”
“So...
“You mean work? Oh, I’m an undertaker!”
“Undertaker?”
“Yeah, you know, we bury the dead! In fact, we’re the first private undertaking establishment in all of London, I’ll have you know! Entreprendres, no less, as the French would say!” Jerry handed Clive a small card. It read:
PHIL ANBURY AND CO.
FUNERAL DIRECTORS
13 Old Swan Lane, Thames Street
“Ooh, directors!” wowed Clive. “Like it’s a performance!”
“Yeah. Used to be people would pay any old hand-for-hire to do it but, you know, they lacked the personal touch – even re-used the coffins often as not. But we, Clive, we’re kicking the bucket upmarket. And it’s a growth industry – well, it was supposed to be...”
“What do you mean?”
“People just aren’t dying like they used to! Living longer, taking more care of themselves, eating organic gruel: business is hard to find these days. Even if someone does croak it, by the time we’re on the scene they’ve usually been carted off by some other cut-price layabout before we’ve even had a chance to make our pitch...”
“So you sell... a better way to die?”
“Ohh, that’s Catchy! Musical to my ears! I’ll be using that, if you don’t mind. No royalty, of course.”
“Naturally. Who wants royal tea? Apart from royal people...”
“Exactly! Now, you know what a leopard is, right?”
“Six legs, stripey tail, two horns?”
“You betcha! You see, I am a professional coffin maker by trade, Clive. You should see some of the beauties I’ve got lined up back at the parlour!”
“You keep pet leopards at work?”
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“No – I mean, I use their fur for the linings of the coffins! Well, its approximation, anyway – amazing what you can do with a bit of sackcloth and a piece of charcoal! You see, Clive – people want a bit of style at their end... And it’s not just form – it’s function too! I’ve been working on some cutting edge innovations... breathing holes, oars... that kind of thing...”
“That sounds amazing Jerry!”
“Yeah... the problem is... the boss – he’s a stickler for tradition. Every time I suggest something new he goes off on one about his ‘tried and tested methods’... oh–” there was a commotion at the far gallery entrance “’Ere comes the old curmudgeon now...”
The door exploded open with considerable (some would say excessive) drama, and a figure half-plunged, half fell across the threshold. Clive caught a flash of dark clothes and a blessedly huge beard, topped by a rather old-fashioned black biretta. The doorway behind was filled by a wall of groping arms, all in rough brown slops. The sound from the many-armed abomination was horrendous: the ravenous lowing of cattle that had sworn off grass for lent because it was just too fattening and were coming for your brains. The man rolled to his feet, and heaved the door to against the lecherous limbs, slamming it repeatedly against those that did not retreat fast enough, until finally it was sealed once more.
The man leaned back against the door. “Bloody sailors!” he swore.
“Eh, Phil, over here! Phil!” Jerry waved helpfully.
The Undertaker lurched towards them, dragging a wet smear behind him across the pub floor. He took the crow’s route: several obliging tables of punters – table, chairs and all – hastily scraped themselves out of the way. Phil’s reputation preceded him by such a margin that it had essentially seceded from the man himself.
Arriving beside Clive and Jerry, Phil drew himself up merely to glare down at them from a greater height, eyes popping at them from above the beard. There was no empirical evidence of a mouth, even when he spoke.
“How now, Jerry, how now? Drinking during work hours, is it?”
“Recruiting! Phil Anbury, may I introduce Mr. Clive Hucklefish...”
“Fish?” Phil started, as if remembering something. He reached into his coat and withdrew a small roach from one wet pocket. It was still twitching. He placed it in Clive’s hand. “Dish!”
“Fish...” Clive corrected.
“Yes,” Phil breathed at him, eye to eye for a moment. “It is!”
“Yeah, um...” Jerry was trying to get back on topic, “Clive’s offered to help us out with our collections.”
The Undertaker’s eyes narrowed. “Oh really? Is he Irish?”
“Nope.”
“Are we paying him?”
“Nope.”
“Splendid!” The Undertaker grabbed Clive’s hand and began pumping it enthusiastically. “Welcome aboard, my boy!”
“Thanks! I won’t let you down!”
“SEE that you DON’T!” The Undertaker leaned closer, so close that his beard brushed Clive’s nose. It was as stiff as wood, and stank of topsoil. Clive risked eye contact, which was difficult to achieve since Phil’s irises were completely black, indistinguishable from his pupils: two giant sinkholes of misery.
They stayed like this (nose to beard) for quite some time.
Jerry watched them, nodding approvingly.
Finally, Phil swung away. “Well, I need a drink!” He made for the bar. The sound of scraping table feet preceded him.
Jerry slapped Clive’s chest with his off-hand, “Eh, Clive! I think he likes you! He’s never taken to a new recruit like that before!”
“How many have you had?”
“You’re the first! This calls for a celebration... and a celebration calls for a bit of er...” Jerry began making a sort of throwing / pointing / whistling motion in the direction of a young barmaid who was bent over cleaning a table (not the Sheila Milly – who seemed to be nowhere in sight).
Clive considered the gesture. “Darts?” he hazarded.
Jerry looked nonplussed. “No mate, no. You know...” Jerry began a backward and forward movement with a crooked arm.
“Sawing?”
“Jesus mercy on the mount! No mate, look... I’ll show you! An’ keep an eye out for Milly, or this pub’s going to have a third name by sundown, and she might not be so discreet next time: not sure Southwark’s ready for ‘The Prickless Muldoon’...”
“I don’t quite...”
“Oi! Darling!” Jerry hailed the barmaid.
She turned and trotted over demurely. “Yes?”
Jerry learned back in his chair, a nonchalant arm over the backrest. “Me and m’mate here were just having an argument about what a pretty thing like you might be called. Now, I reckoned that you were called Daisy, didn’t I, Clive?”
Clive was just starting to catch on. “Y...y... yes you did!”
“And what did you think that she was called, Clive?”
“Er… Enid!”
Jerry looked at Clive incredulously. “Enid? Er... Yeah, Enid. So, er, which one of us is right?”
The barmaid giggled winsomely. “Well, you’re both wrong – it’s Polly!”
Jerry slapped his thigh. “Polly! Of course, I can see it now! Well, Polly–” he handed her a coin, “why don’t you go and put the kettle on, and I’ll tell you about the time I single-handedly took on the entire French army?”
The barmaid’s mouth fell open. She swished her skirts, “Oakieday!” and was gone.
Clive looked from the departing Polly to Jerry and back again. “That was incredible!”
Jerry grinned. “Nah! ’S’nothing. Hey, why don’t you give it a try?”
“Oh, okay!” Clive swivelled about for a suitable candidate.
A lone female figure sat staring at a glass of flavoured gin. Being unescorted and of the fairer sex implicitly gave Clive all the permission he needed to ruin her happy hour. After all, what possible other reason could she be here for than to garner male attention, or even Clive’s? He was doing her a favour, really! Of course, had he looked closer, he might have recognised her from the red lacquered architectural monstrosity earlier...
“Oi! Darling!” Clive opened, doing his best Jerry.
Jerry took one look at the target and spat out his beer in a wide spray! He tried to motion to Clive to stop, but the damage was done...
Her head snapped up and she stood in one smooth motion. There was something oddly mantis-like about her movements: the speed. She marched over to stand behind Clive and Jerry on staccato pins of ice.
“YES?” Her tone would have curdled syrup: lesser (and wiser) men than Clive would have beaten a hasty retraction; but this was Clive, so he forged ahead with plan A, which for Clive was always the only plan that came both before and after Z.
Clive attempted a lounge nonchalant á la mode Muldoon, a manoeuvre that nearly toppled him from the chair. “Me and m’mate here were just having an argument about what a pretty thing like you might be called...”
“Were you REALLY?” the target baited, looking pointedly at Jerry.
“Yes! Now. I reckoned that you were called Gertrude, didn’t I, Jerry?”
“You leave me out of it, you lummox...” Jerry muttered into his beer.
“And what did you think that she was called, Jerry?”
Jerry sighed. “Isabella.”
Clive beamed. “Isabella! There you go! So which is it?”
The target crossed her arms beneath her bosom(s). “Isabella.”
Clive was overjoyed. “Wow, Jerry! You must be able to read minds or something!”
Phil was returning from the bar. “Good evening, Isabella!”
Clive gawped. The Undertaker could do it too, an’ all!
Isabella turned. “Good evening, Mr. Anbury!”
Clive double took! Could everyone mindread except him??
The Undertaker’s beard bristled. “Is your father joining us this evening? Or have my prayers finally been answered, and he’s been flattened by a herd of angry...” he mulled for a moment “...geese.”
“He’ll be along presently.”
“Hm. I’d better go and warm up then!” The Undertaker sloped back to the bar. More scraping, followed by the most abhorrent gurgling noise, as if the most noxious spirits known to civilization were being used to strip the vocal cords bare of any and all extraneous tissue. Which they were.
“Uh-oh!” Jerry muttered, “We’d better get out of here, Clive!”
“Why?”
“Ah, well you see – the Undertaker and Isabella’s Dad, the Alchemist–”
“Alchemist?”
“Yeah, you know: gold from rats, pyjamas from tea towels, that kind of thing–”
Isabella punched Jerry on the arm, “Oi! Watch what you’re saying, Muldoon!”
“Sorry, Issy – suffice to say they don’t like each other!”
“So?”
“They... every time they meet, they...”
Clive was intrigued now. “What?”
Jerry couldn’t get the words out... “Tell him, Issy!”
Isabella turned her dough-like eyes fully upon Clive. His cheeks reddened warmly. He quickly raised his bottle to drink, blocking the obfuscating orbs from view.
Isabella looked deeply uncomfortable. “They... insult one another!”
Clive’s expression coloured him unimpressed. “What’s so dangerous about that? A pair of dirty smelly grouchy old men...”
“Oi!” This time it was Clive that got the punch. Physical contact! Progress!
“Sorry, Issy! But really! Insults?”
Isabella looked towards the riverside door. “An insult can be a powerful thing. Insult duelling has a long history – all the way back to the Greek Gods of Olympus... probably even older than that. My dad thinks language was basically invented so that people could be rude to one another...”
Jerry tried to elaborate... “It’s like they tilt at each other... with verse. Think of it as a duel to the metric death.”
Clive couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “A poetry recital?”
“It’s no joke, Clive!” cried Jerry, “People get hurt!”
A new voice interjected suddenly. “Well, if it isn’t my least-favourite Uncle!” Unannounced, the newcomer plonked himself down in the seat next to Jerry.
Jerry tossed a half-hearted grin. “Eh-eh, John! Fancy seeing you here!”
“Yes. Fancy.” The newcomer tossed his auburn locks and seated himself with a leant posture that exactly mirrored Jerry’s own. Jerry immediately shifted to a more conservative pose. The newcomer waited for Jerry to make the introductions.
Jerry lowered his eyes. “This is, er, John, my... nephew.”
John choiced each of them with a look, and Isabella with a linger. Clive had to admit he was a particularly handsome boy: a tender handsomeness of clean jaw and pouting lips that could appeal regardless of persuasion. There was a laziness to the eyes which he shared with Jerry, but that was where the resemblance ended.
“Uncle, your manners! Introduce your friends, please.”
Jerry looked at his nephew pointedly. “I thought the King had passed an ordinance forbidding children under one and eight from entering public houses?”
“So he did,” said John. “Which is why it is fortunate I recently turned 18. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you, Uncle?”
“Well, you know Charles...” said Jerry, looking away. “Anything can happen... perhaps he’ll raise the limit to 21 instead?”
John smiled. “Perhaps he will. And I’ll be 21 one day too. Fancy that. Not that I care much for rules and ordinances, of course, particularly not those of a King. The sheep care not where the grass lies.”
Jerry’s head whipped back! “They care right enough when the sheepdog growls! Perhaps he’ll lower the limit to under 18 instead? Try being 17 again you insufferable whippersnapper!”
“I’m sorry,” John said (to the table rather than to Jerry, who he was now studiously ignoring). “I’ve interrupted. It looks like you were all leaving...”
“There’s going to be an insult duel,” snorted Clive. “Oo-ooh!” he mocked.
“Capital!” said John. “I do love a good flyting! Well, I’ll be at the bar...” and with a swish of bole cloth (and a comehither for Isabella, which she mercifully missed thither) he was gone.
“My nephew, the wit!” sniffed Jerry. “Wasting his life away! He went to Oxford at 13, you know? Wadham College. Paid for by the crown, they say, much he did to deserve it... Now look at him! If I didn’t owe his dad a life debt...”
Clive was getting bored. “I thought we were getting out of here, before the oh-so-scary insults started flying...?”
Jerry banged down his bottle and stood. “By Jove! Yes! Yes, we are!”
Isabella gaped. “No, we’re not!”
“Yes we are! Right now!”
Isabella pointed. “Too late!”
And indeed it was, for Isabella’s sire, the Alchemist of London Bridge and sworn nemesis to the Undertaker, had arrived.