If These Walls Could Talk

In this world, there is magic. Old magic. Just learning about it, your hair will turn white and your toenails will curl. Even telling tales of such magics demands much, from both listener and teller.

This is not one of those tales.

This is a story about me and my mate Herb, and our friends. Or really, it’s about Herb, because I’m kind of Herb, but also kind of not. I’m the talking bit of Herb, you see. Herb can’t talk because, well… he’s a pub.

Oh, don’t look at me like that. Herb wasn’t always a pub. Once upon a time, he was a whimsical highland meadow. A lovely place for frolicking, might I add. But then, along came a megalomaniacal wizard. You know the type, obsessed with power, no sense of humor. All that was missing was a pointy hat.

He built himself a hovel on Herb because he’d decided he wanted to see through time. So, being a wizard of the old kind, he cast some spells, fused his hovel to the meadow, and, poof, created me to be his enslaved satyr and do the talking. Because while Herb, like all whimsical meadows, can see through all of time, it turns out, also like all whimsical meadows, he’s terrible at explaining it.

Now, when I say “all of time,” I mean it literally. Past, present, future, it’s all one big mess to Herb. But I’ve learned that for folks like you, who experience time as a nice, tidy line, that’s “confusing.” So, I do my best to keep things moving in one direction. Is it working? I hope it’s working.

Anyway, the wizard didn’t use us much. 

Herb’s a lightweight, see. In the 13th century, someone built a pub on him called “the Satyr’s Meadow”, because humans sense more than they understand. Herb, existing across all of time, absorbed a few centuries’ worth of humans drinking spirits, and he’s perpetually plastered. Hilarious if you’re a satyr like me, less so if you’re trying to unlock the secrets of existence.

Turns out, trying to peer through time while your house is also a drunken meadow spirit is less “cosmic wisdom” and more “getting heckled by eternity.” 

So the wizard buggered off, leaving Herb and me to… well, whatever this is. And for a long time, things were peaceful.

Until things got… complicated.

You see, the wizard’s summoning spell wasn’t in English, but it turns out part of the activation phrase is phonetically identical to the phrase “if these walls could talk.” The bit that wakes us up. Doesn’t let people see me. Doesn’t let people hear me, or Herb. Do you know how often people say that in a pub? Especially an old one, around Christmas?

Every. Bloody. Year. Those words drive me crazy.

Which brings us to you. Hello there.

I’m not sure how you summoned us, and summoned the bit of us where you can read what I write, instead of see what I do, or hear what I say. But, since it’s Christmas Eve, you’re in luck. Herb and I have been working on something.

A little gift for someone very special.

—

So, I know I said I’d keep a straight line, but I’m going to stray for just a minute. See that boy there who just walked in the front door? Tall fellow with the pencil moustache and three-piece suit, bowler hat perched on his head like he thinks he’s Charlie Chaplin, and it’s the 1920s or something instead of 2024? He’s got that awkward walk, too, like a baby giraffe figuring out where its legs go.

That’s Henry. One of our favorite people. We always make sure the door hinges work smoothly for him. Beer pours just right, the floorboards never creak under his gangly frame.

I wanted to introduce you to him right away. He’s the one who’s getting a gift today.

We got this idea yonks ago. Way back when people weren’t even saying “way back when” yet! We realized something. We could affect things. Not in big, flashy ways. We leave the fireworks to the old magics. But in small, quiet ways, Herb and I figured out we could nudge things.

Take that fellow last century, what was his name? George? Gerald? Doesn’t matter. The point is, he thought it’d be clever to carve his initials into the bar. Herb didn’t like that one bit. Second the knife touched the wood, every candle in the place flared up, and tankards all rattled. George-or-Gerald stopped carving and spilled his pint down the front of his trousers. Just because you can’t hear Herb slurring “ouch, keep yer filthy hands to yerself!” doesn’t mean he can’t make himself abundantly clear.

On the other hand, when folks treat Herb with care, he returns the favor. Ever found your glass full just when you thought it was dry? That’s Herb. Or how the hearth seems to light itself when you think, “It’s a bit chilly in here”? Herb. He’s particular, but he’s got a soft spot for people who treat him like more than an object.

Which brings us to Margaret Lefae.

Margaret wasn’t just kind, she was special. Gifted. Some people sense magic, are drawn to it. They seek magic, and use it to have grand adventures and learn the dark secrets at the heart of existence.

Some others become barkeeps and publicans. Margaret was one of those.

Margaret was Henry’s great-great-great-grandmother. She won Herb and me in a game of dice. Herb had been smitten the moment she walked in, took one look at the layout and said “well aren’t you the most special place in the world!” Herb doesn’t mind a bit of flattery.

Clearly meant it. She’d held the dice in her hand, leaned low and whispered to the walls, “It’s meant to be,” Herb agreed, so the dice did too.

According to Herb, Margaret is one of the two most awesome people of all time. (The other, according to Herb, is Maisie, we’ll get to Maisie) She had this knack for making everyone feel welcome. Wandering travelers, locals down on their luck, even a satyr who’d occasionally enjoy too much mead. Ahem. She may not have strictly known about the satyr.

She understood Herb better than anyone. Sensed his moods, knew when to give him a polish, or to light the hearth just so. Together, they created a place where people didn’t just drink. People connected, they celebrated, they healed.

Margaret, though, she worried. Her son, her descendants. She wasn’t sure they’d inherit her connection to Herb. “What if they don’t feel the heartbeat?” she’d mutter while polishing the bar. 

Herb didn’t like seeing Margaret fret. And while he’s a pub, he’s not just a pub. And what’s more, he was a pub that already knew that while her family would share her gift, one of her grandsons was destined to head off to war, and the pub would fall out of the family.

So, Herb, he came up with an idea. Something to make sure Maisie’s family always stayed connected to the heart of the pub, across the generations.

—

“If these walls could talk…”

I awake and immediately know something’s up. While I sleep, you see, Herb doesn’t. But since Herb is me, if I’m awake, I know what Herb knows, and what I know as I wake is that Herb doesn’t like what Herb knows.

Sorry. Is that confusing?

Tense can be tough when you’re a perpetually drunken old pub that can see through time.

“They’d tell so many stories about our family!”

Margaret’s grandson, Edward sits beside his sister, Mary. They’re staring down at a contract. They’re about to sell Herb. Sell us.

“Don’t you bloody dare!” I yell.

They can’t hear me of course.

“But Charles’ condition since the war… medical bills don’t pay themselves,” he continues. “They did say we could come by… Stay on special occasions…”

The pair sit in silence.

“Promise! Promise we come back!” Demands Mary, “Every year! We will have Christmas here. And, we will buy it back as soon as we can afford it!”

Edward nods, sadly. He goes to sign, finds the paper has slipped from the table. He picks it up. “It’s like the place doesn’t want us to go either.”

He signs…

“If these walls could talk!”

I find myself sitting at the Lefae family’s Christmas dinner. Years had passed since the sale. Edward and Mary are old, white haired,  wrinkled. Brother Charles, whose medical bills the sale had covered, is no longer with us. The new owners turned out to not love them coming back after all, but Herb continued to open the doors. They’re Margaret’s grandkids! Fancy locks aren’t stopping them visiting!

“Turkey always tastes better here!” One of the next generation, Wilbur, is carving the bird.

“Did you really used to own this place?” An even younger generation, Harriet says to Mary.

“Oh yes,” she says, “and our parents, and before them, our grandmother Margaret, who would always tell us how much magic was in these walls!

“If these walls could talk…”

Now Wilbur is old, very old. He sits in a chair by the window. The security shutters have mysteriously opened to let the winter light in. The new investors don’t even know that the Lefae family continues celebrating Christmas here, and the proprietors aren’t sure how to make them stop. They have sought excuses, but somehow, everything seems to work better and be cleaner the day after a visit from the Lefae’s.

Harriet stands beside Wilbur, holding a baby. I sneak up, even though I know they can’t see me, hop on a table and peer over her shoulder.

“They would be able to tell you about six generations of our family between these walls!” Harriet coos to the baby, “Say hello to your grandfather, Henry!” 

And that’s how I found out Henry had Margaret’s eyes. 

Herb and I loved him. 

—

Let me tell you something. Henry Lefae is the first Lefae in many years to make money. He's got a pocket full of cash this Christmas. To buy a Christmas gift. For himself, for me, for Herb… but mainly, for Maisie.

I mentioned Maisie earlier. Maisie is Herb’s favourite human ever. Even more than Margaret.

You see, the investors that used to own us back when Henry was a baby fell on tough times. Upkeep of a country pub isn’t always easy. If you’re just in it for the dollars, and don’t feel the life of the place, then it can be tough to keep writing cheques.

“If these walls could talk…”

First time I met Maisie wasn’t Christmas. It was a beautiful spring day in the middle of April. Bluebells and daffodils in the fields reminded me of when Herb and I had been a meadow and our spirit had been birds and rabbits and wild things. 

Herb was in rough shape. Windows had been boarded up. We hadn't seen a human since Christmas. Well, a couple of teenagers had snuck in on Valentines Day, but if there’s one thing I dislike more than that phrase, it’s hearing it on Valentines Day. I just don’t need to see that, self respecting Satyr that I am.

Maisie was a little wild herself, untameable wavy brown hair forming a cloud around her head, talking to herself as she walked through. She was in an old sweater, long skirt and sneakers. She’d climbed in a window. I liked her right away, I could see why Herb had made the window’s board just a little less secure.

“Look at these cornices!” She said.

I am the spirit of a pub and I don’t know what a cornice is. But I liked the way she said it.

She gasped when she got to the barroom. 

“Well aren’t you beautiful!” She said.

“Thanks for noticing!” I said.

She tilted her head, almost as if she could hear me.

We knew she was special.

As she walked, she touched everything. As if touching it made it real. As I’d stand in front of her, she’d squint, as if she could almost see me.

I half expected her to recite the rest of the charm, and make me visible.

No, I’m not going to tell you what it is! Nice try…

“I wonder what it would take to pry you away from whoever owns you,” she said.

Herb was smitten.

“If these walls could talk…”

Maisie had followed through and looked up the investors, who were happy to let her take the place off their hands. While we weren’t open to the public again, we were on our way.

Maisie was wearing a wary grin as she greeted an equally surprised looking Harriet Lefae. No longer young, standing by the oven, from which emanated delectable smells of turkey.

“They’d tell you my family has been coming here for six generations for Christmas dinner. I’m so sorry we startled you dear, I honestly didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

That Maisie rolled with an old woman cooking turkey in her kitchen made Herb love her more. Especially as she then pulled up a chair and rolled with this family turning up to her new home and settling in for a traditional Christmas dinner. 

I just wished Henry had been there. He was away at college, and didn’t join us that year.

“If these walls could talk!”

Maisie said it… then paused as if sensing something changing with the words. With a shrug she continues talking to the man in the dark suit and red tie in front of her.

“This place, you must feel how special it is!”

“It’s a lovely pub, but the bank needs its repayment.” the man in a suit says.

I contributed by sticking my tongue out at him. Given he couldn’t see me, I’m unsurprised he was unmoved.

Maisie narrowed her eyes

“You know how it was when I got here. You will get your money, I just need some time!”

The man stood up.

“We have no desire to foreclose, Miss Rafferty, but rules are rules.”

He went to leave but fell, almost as if his chair had moved and tripped him.

Maisie giggled.

“Be good!” She said under her breath.

And I had a plan.

—

Don’t think just because I can see all of time backwards and forward means I don’t get nervous. Well, Herb can see all of time. From where he is. And Herb is permanently drunk.

But effectively I can see it. And still, I was nervous.

As Henry walked up to the front door, pocket full of cash, I was full of hope. Here was the opportunity to see us come back to Margaret’s family, and help out Maisie.

I’d been here since the previous evening. Normally I return to my slumber as soon as possible after somebody utters those fateful words, but I’d spent an awkward Christmas Eve listening to pub goers go from festive to frolicking to the last lonely drinkers of yuletide lack of cheer. 

I wasn’t going to risk missing this! 

“Ah,” said Maisie when she met him at the entry to the dining room, “you must be Henry!”

Once again, I admired her poise. A stranger had just walked into her supposedly locked hotel on Christmas, and she immediately understood he belonged.

“And you must be Maisie!” Henry enthused, proferring a hand, “I must say, the place is looking the best I’ve ever seen!”

Did he sound… disappointed that Herb and I were looking so good?

“Offer her the money!” I yelled, though I knew he couldn’t hear.

“Come on Herb,” I encouraged, “give him a little push!”

Herb did nothing.

“Why thank you! I do so love it here, I’ve never felt a building more alive!”

She ran her hand over a bannister and if Herb could blush, he would have. The fire in the hearth didn’t get any cooler.

And so the dinner went. Maisie and Henry chatted a lot as the meals were served. Sat beside each other at dinner. And yet at no stage did Henry offer Maisie the money in his pocket to buy us back into his family.

At times, being an invisible Satyr is incredibly frustrating. Those times are known as always. Which makes it difficult to describe how much more frustrating it is at a time like this.

I couldn’t understand why Henry wasn’t buying us back. I was perturbed that Herb seems so sanguine. Satisfied even. I don’t think I’d felt Herb feel this satisfied since Margaret had been alive.

Eventually, all the Turkey was eaten. All the presents opened. The family all departed.

Except Henry.

He and Maisie sat in front of an open fire, each with a glass of scotch in their hands.

I stood in front of Henry, glaring my best glare. Part of what I love about Henry is that even if he can’t see me, he normally senses my moods. This time, he was unmoved.

“I was going to make you an offer today.” He said eventually.

“Whatever do you mean?” Asked Maisie.

“For the Satyr’s Meadow.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, I’d heard you were struggling. And I’ve always kind of felt this was really my family’s place, even if we didn’t own it.”

Maisie was silent for a long moment. I was confused. We are his family’s place.

“And what changed?”

“Well, you… you feel like you belong here. Like us.”

I realised he was right. I realised the reason he couldn’t feel my glare was because it was just mine. Herb was happy right now.

“Well, thank you. I do know what you mean you know. About your family, and belonging.”

Herb was happy.

“You know though. I wouldn’t mind the right investor…”

Herb was SO happy.

Henry shook his head.

“If these walls could talk!” He said.