Beached Hen

The kettle whistles at the same time he discovers he has finished the last of the milk this morning. Sighing, he places on his jacket, his cap and steps off his moored canal boat to land. Eric Cope takes the last two stone steps up from the canal and past the Canal Tavern. As per usual he

glances through the pub’s window and sees him sitting at the bar drinking his Guinness. And once

again, he quickly looks down at his scuffed boots, then up at the clouds blanketing the sky above -

continuing his short daily journey to pick up a pint of milk and a newspaper.

The folded newspaper is sheltered slightly from the slight drizzle under his armpit as he holds the milk in his left hand. He glances through the window and notices Mac still sitting there. Placing his flat cap tighter over his head and with one hand pushing his collar flatter against his neck Eric takes the familiar walk down the stone steps, back towards the canal back to The Beached Hen.

The Beached Hen. The canal boat which undoubtedly was the envy of his friends and the

envy of the band. Their envy was deserved, Eric thought. He had saved for it, paid, and cared for it,

looked after it as well as anyone did after a home. House proud and proud to be. Unlocking the door

and walking in, boots still firmly on feet he wondered, not for the first time why he even bothered

these days. A decade ago, his boots, as well as any visitors would be sitting outside next to the

immaculate and pristine paintwork. Now the faded exterior with the cracked paintwork was

probably the most respectable part of the boat. Eric shuffled into the narrow living quarters and

slumped on the armchair placing all the sections of the broadsheet onto the floor, together with the pint of milk he will use soon. His daily routine is to skim through the paper and begin then from the sports pages. Today was no different.

He pushed the travel segment aside with his boot and wondered how long ago he had

hoovered. He knew the answer. He glanced at the rest of the living area. Many empty bottles lay on

and against the dusty cabinet. The rug had changed colour from purple and yellow to grey and boxes

upon boxes had been stacked up, some ripping where the damp seeped into the cardboard. Plastic

bags surrounded them, some from supermarkets Eric realised didn’t even exist even more. A bike

lent against the wall, now more rust than bicycle. He stared at the window, the grey net curtain

hanging limp, a spider slowly dissecting a fly caught up in the mesh. The windows would be too filthy

to see out of anyway. He turned the page of his newspaper, thought again of Marc sitting at the bar

and sighed.

His mind without influence moved from the black and white written word to the

kaleidoscopic loud room of the Canal Tavern twelve years ago. He knew it was twelve years ago, he

didn’t require to count the seasons. He had heard that time flies. They were wrong.

The Canal Tavern was a hive of noise, a den of fun and of friendships. He remembered the

overpowering smell of the air freshener in the men’s toilet and the slight tear on the left-hand side

of the pool table – compliments of Jax, a cue and too much Bells whiskey. Every Friday, Bad-Ass

Blues played and every Friday the crowd simply loved them. Eric looked through his own eyes at this

different time but the same life. Just. His bass guitar slung over his shoulder, his fingers hitting every

note, maybe not perfectly but with enthusiasm, as the singer Paddy rubbed himself up and down the

microphone stand like a dog on heat. Eddie playing guitar next to him and Marc hitting these drums

like there was no tomorrow. Sweat dripping all round, the stage smelled of sweat, rock, roll and

cheap deodorant. Fun being had and the crowd singing along to every single word.

Every single Friday without fail. The band could have toured, they could have seen more of

the country, mingled with more people, got drinks bought for them in new pubs in new cities, slept

with more strangers. But they just wanted to play their music in their pub in their home city. They

loved it, they loved each other, and the locals loved them for it. On a Friday evening all four

members of Bad-Ass Blues hit legendary status. Free drinks, free spirits, and free sex. Life was loud

and life was good. Marc and him on the Guinness, Eddie and Paddy on the vodka and cokes. The

drinks were known and always stocked up.

He mused on the company he kept at the Beached Head. If one member of the band didn’t

stay over Eric always had plenty of young ladies to entertain on the spotless canal boat. Not for the

first time in the past twelve years he glanced down at the filthy carpet and wondered when the last

time he had had sex on it. Twelve years, one hundred and forty-four months since anybody apart

from him had stepped foot into his home. In that time only his boots had walked into The Hen.

The argument had started in an anger fuelled, alcoholic haze, involving a young lady no doubt, but

Eric’s memory of it was so blurred. Eric recalled it couldn’t be long after they had finished their set

as their instruments were still on the stage. He remembered angry words between Marc and

himself, born no doubt out of adrenaline and alcohol. Their voices had got louder and louder as the

pub got quieter and quieter. Making a fist and punching Marc as hard in his face as he could was a

memory, he recalled. The noise of his nose smashing still lived clearly in his head. Clearer than his

sister’s graduation or his father’s funeral. Replaying this a million times never made it less painful.

Marc falling, the blood flying through the air as he had been dragged out the Canal Tavern by at least

two people. He couldn’t recall who they were. Remembering the anger still bubbling inside him as

he stood outside the pub. The anger did fade and transformed into a feeling of shame. Eric-

musician, local hero, well-known and well-loved had shown everybody the ugly version of him. His

head hung and he walked back to the Beached Hen. Unusually for a Friday night, alone. He would

apologise to Marc, the pub, the band and to the customers tomorrow. He fell asleep and dreamt of

despair.

Twelve years had passed and still no apology. He didn’t know if Kick Ass Blues found a

replacement, or they were no more. He didn’t care. Twelve years. The Beached Hen accumulated

twelve years of dust and grime as Eric watched television, read the newspaper and occasionally did

sudoku puzzles.

In that time, he had bought a new smartphone and visited his mum in Newcastle twice.

Once due to duty, the other due to her funeral. In these years he had not cleaned, played bass,

laughed, or indeed made anybody else laugh. He turned another page and thought of his bass guitar,

possibly still sitting in the pub or in a Cash Convertors store up in the high street somewhere.

A sigh escaped from his mouth once more, stood up and placed the newspaper onto the chair.

Leaving the canal boat Eric walked up the stairs towards the Canal Tavern. He saw Marc was still

sitting at the bar.

Twelve years.

Eric felt the pounding of his heart as his palms began to sweat. He tried to get his legs to go

through the door of the pub, but they didn’t want to.

Gingerly, he opened the door of the Canal Tavern and walked up to the bar and sat at the

empty stool next to Marc McNorrie.

Marc turned left and slowly finished downed what was left of his drink. Eric felt he had a

million things to say but no words could be formed. Throat feeling tinderbox dry and stomach

clenching. Gripping the side of the chair Eric watched Marc’s eyes flit to him then to his own empty

pint glass then to the barman in which Eric did not recognise.

“Same again?” Marc said, indicating to his empty glass.

“And one for my friend here.”