Read the full story of how folks round here can be "Real Friendly". From the newly-out "Thirty Shades of Coffee" short story book.

Yeah, it's why I moved here... folks are real friendly

Real Friendly

‘I’m gonna have me a beautiful quiet afternoon after a busy lunch period like that,’ I said to my wife.

‘Had enough mine-hosting, serving drinks and meals, Darlin’? Rest up for the evening fray, huh?’ She came out the back-bar room for a moment. ‘I’ll keep an eye on the bar if anyone comes in. Otherwise, I’ll stay in the back and get the crockery in the Kingfisher, and the linen laundered . Busy with meals there, huh?’

‘Tell me about it.’

Yeah, good business these days. Love the freedom of English opening times; relative lack of regulations compared with the States.

Chat with the last few of the diners – so leisurely here. A pub’s not a feeding station like in the States. But they’re just finishing up, ready to go.

‘See ya.’

‘Cheers, Greg… Jay…’

So I straightened a few chairs, changed the menus ready for the evening, and put my feet up in the bar, sitting back with a half-pint of English beer. Funny how you get used to this stuff – like the food we prepare and serve. Positively enjoy it.

Come to like it a lot since we moved here – ’preciate it, as I never tire of telling my clientele… customers. Regard me and Jay as converts to the Brit way of life, they do. Kinda pleased with themselves.

Just the last few folk finishing up and departing now, chatting in the car park. Probably have a quiet spell – maybe have a few walkers calling in during the afternoon. Usually quiet on a Monday; so, half an hour with my feet up, then maybe getting on with re-painting the paddock fence round the beer garden. In the sun. Afore the season starts up proper.

One guy left, tardy over his meal and a final drink, and he’s looking round, getting up. And he comes over to chat after he’s finished his meal. He’s a fellow American, on vacation, I heard him tell some regular local folk on the next table. Saw them glance at me, and heard, “American”, so I thought he might come and chat, how you do on vacation – when you see a compatriot gone native, as it were.

So he slides into the spare seat opposite. ‘Name of Max. Got a couple of people to meet in here,’ he said, checking his watch.

‘Greg.’ We shake hands.

‘They should be here soon, my pals; we’re travelling together; vacation-like.’ Sounded more Georgia-Carolina, but said he was West Virginia. Not so far apart, I guess.

‘How come you’re here?’ he’s wanting to know, straightening-up a condiment set. ‘Settled are you? What’s this place called?’

‘The pub’s the Royal Brinsley Arms, named for the village.’

‘Right; you run it, huh? How’d you find a jewel like this? Land up here?’

‘Same as you, I guess: I was on vacation here in England. Visiting my daughter and her husband in Chesterfield. Borrowed car broke down coming through the village. Garage came out to us – two guys with a low-loader semi. All laughs and assurances. “Get the parts tomorrow. Take a day to fix it,” they said, and took us round to the local pub – this place. They got two guest rooms back then, really friendly reception. Yeah,’ I shuffled, swung my feet over the other way, sipped my pint. ‘Really took to the place.’

Ah – Two new folk coming in, looking round. Saw my new companion, called to him, and came over, brief greeting to me and Max. Clearly, as he’d said, not long-lost relatives, just fellow travellers who had been doing something different for an hour or two. Pulled seats over, and joined us. Another nod and a Hi.

Sat up better, now I had more company, and I continued, ‘We were stuck here for three nights all told, while they were fixing the car. Great meals. English beer. Breakfast. Went for a walk that first day. In one hour, thirteen people spoke to us:

“How’re you?” they’d said.

“Alright?”

“Nice weather – no rain yet.”

“Great-looking dog…  What’s her name?”

“Good to get some sun for a change.” Always the weather with the English.

“New round here?”

“Welcome t’ England… Staying long?”

“You seen the new houses they’re putting up, back of the park?”

“Yank, are you? Whereabouts in the States?”     

‘Me and Jaylene were just enjoying a stroll in the sun. Everyone stopped, even before they heard my accent, and they all chatted like we were old friends. Yeah, real friendly.

‘I ask ya – how many times does that happen in New York? I reckon that ten years in the Big Apple, there wasn’t thirteen folk total ever spoke to me on the sidewalk.

‘Got back home two weeks later, sold up everything I had Stateside. Moved over the pond and bought the garage here; then this place.’

‘New York?’ he says. ‘Worked there, huh? Lived there?’

‘Sure did. You guys not wanting a drink?’ I nodded towards the bar.

But apparently not. The quiet kind, I guessed, shuffling my backside for comfort; tugging at my pants.

‘New York? Yes – restaurateur on Eleventh.’

‘Yeah?’ Guy brightens up, like he knows the Strip. ‘Not Luigi’s?’

‘Luigi’s?’ I said, utching at my pants again – can’t get comfortable sometimes. ‘Not one I know. Francesco’s was ours. Joe-ziff! That city was so cramping on my life style, my freedom. Living above the place, my horizons never stretched beyond the other side of the street.’

They were nodding like they understood all too well; smiles all round in empathy.

‘Sure,’ I said, ‘it was paying well. But, heck, I thought it best to go. Time to move on when you feel things are getting a touch tight; sort of enclosed by circumstance.’

You know how, sometimes, you just can’t get comfortable how you’re sitting, and you’re shuffling and easing yourself and the seat don’t seem right for your butt? I was like that. Utching and groping, like the English say. I’d been that way since Max sat down.

‘Greg Sard, huh?’ Max drops my name out, like all cold and fixed. And he ain’t just read it from above the bar or the door. The other two just freeze up a fraction, like they know it’s tension time.

My face froze, too. No point denying it at that stage. ‘You know me.’

‘Indeed,’ says Max, the three of them sitting there, not quite so relaxed-seeming now. Not doing much moving, either; just kinda tightening-up and mentally closing in.

‘So, are you coming with us quietly?’ one of them says. ‘Or do you want to do it here?’

Didn’t need to look round – empty bar; Jaylene in the back room.

Two guys’ hands slipping inside their coats… so easy and smooth. Resting there; like threatening. Ominous. Max reaching towards his leather coat pocket, patted it. ‘Hmm?’ He like gave me a last chance.

‘I think we better get it over with here, eh, Max?’

Phutt.

Phutt.

Phutt.

Under the table, my finger relaxed. The smoke was an acrid whiff, rising around us. No-one to notice.

They’re slumping back.

‘Switch on the air-con, huh? dilute the smoke.’ I call to Jaylene. ‘We need new covers on the seats.’

She comes over, looks over the three deadies. ‘Capito’s boys, I expect?’ Lifting their jackets open to check for weapons. She nodded, ‘We can tell folk we’ve been setting up for a cowboy theme night, Honey, if they ask.’

‘Yeah. They’ve still not forgiven me for dodging out with the funds, I guess.’

‘I’ll collect their cells and drop them into the next truck that stops by. Maybe won’t find us so quick next time.’

‘I’ll get the tractor warmed-up, and extend that trench out back.’

‘Again… Another quiet relaxing afternoon gone to the dogs, huh?’ Jaylene said, starting to go through Max’s pockets.

Welcome in, for a coffee, beer, revenge...