The Hen and Chickens however, was a pub quite unlike any other. A peek at the small bar, left of the entrance hall, revealed a large inglenook fireplace, with a roaring fire in the grate, around which were spread a few tables and chairs. By the window at the front a counter displayed a spread of groceries and a large range of fruit and veg. I popped my head round to see if there were any staff behind the bar.
A couple of old men were playing chess by the fireside. One glanced over. I must have looked out of place because he didn’t eye me for more than a second. ‘If you’re after Bob,’ he said, ‘he’ll most like be in the saloon or upstairs.’
‘Oh right,’ I said, assuming Bob to be the landlord. ‘Thanks.’
The other man had turned round to view the interruption. ‘Ring the bell on the bar top.’
I dipped back into the hallway and went through the door opposite into a larger saloon. A middle-aged man over by the window was doing the crossword while cradling a pint of ale. He looked up briefly in a friendly manner, before returning to his paper. Three women were clustered round a circular table with a half-empty bottle of wine in their midst. Over at the bar another couple of men, just edging out of middle age but not yet elderly, were nursing their pints in companionable silence. But for the whirring squeaks of the fruit machine and some crooning country and western in the background, there was little noise.
The two men at the bar nodded. One of them shouted towards a door between the optics. ‘Bob! Customer!’
Within a few minutes a large man appeared. Bob was in his early sixties, wearing a woollen tank top that stretched over a true publican’s belly. He had a booming voice and eyes that looked like they’d seen a fair chunk of life but liked it. You could see why the pub managed to attract and keep a loyal clientele.
He grinned broadly when I asked if they did bed and breakfast.
‘There’s not another pub or shop for miles. We’re everything here – hotel, function room, social club, corner shop. You name it, we do it. We’ve got a double with an ensuite, one without, two singles and a family room.’
I asked if I could look at them first.
‘Watch the bar will ya, Ray, while I show this young lady to the rooms. If Linda’s ladies need a top up while I’m away, take it from the fridge. They’re on the Pinot.’
And with that he ushered me behind the bar into a narrow hallway leading to the back of the building, where a single storey extension spread along the yard. Bob opened the doors and let me view the rooms.
Although basic and slightly eighties in design, the floral duvets and pine furniture were clean, and the rooms were bright and warm. The ensuite was small but functional so I took the double, chucked my case on the bed and spent a couple of minutes replying to a text from Joe asking how I was. I kept my reply short and brief saying there had been some developments on my story and that I was looking forward to telling him when he got back. There was no point going into detail now. I signed off with a couple of ‘x’s and went back to sign in the visitor’s book.
As I filled in the relevant forms Bob asked me what I was doing down in his neck of the woods. When I told him I was looking for Treetops, he nodded wisely.
‘Nice couple. He’s a card.’ He looked over to the two men at the bar. ‘Isn’t he, Ray?’
‘What’s that?’ said the bloke who was Ray, finishing his pint and straightening himself up at the bar.
‘I was just saying to this young lady, er,’ he looked at the register, ‘Sadie – Harry Phelps, Treetops. He’s a card, isn’t he?’
Ray arched his eyebrows. ‘Oh aye, he’s a card all right.’
The man next to him gave a nod. ‘He’s got high hopes, that one,’ he said and the three of them chuckled.
‘Well,’ said Bob. ‘We’ve all had high hopes at some time haven’t we?’ They all laughed a little louder.
‘Oh right,’ I said vaguely. This was obviously some in-joke. ‘So where do they live?’
‘Down off Dalby Lane,’ said Bob and then supplied me with very detailed directions.