Butchers v. Coopers
by Brendan Gisby
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Help can come from the most unexpected quartet.
Swearwords: A lot of strong ones.
Description: Help can come from the most unexpected quartet.
Fleetwood Mac’s Oh Well was playing at top volume on the jukebox. Loud as the record was, Dan could hardly hear Peter Green’s voice above the noise of the Friday night crowd in the hotel’s lounge bar. But he could hear quite clearly the Bossman’s braying laughter coming from the direction of the adjoining public bar. Standing in the little passageway between the two bars, Dan cursed the Bossman, took one last drag of the fly fag he was having and re-joined his buddy Jake behind the counter of the lounge bar.
Usually on such a busy night, the Bossman would be out on the floor, helping Jake and him by clearing tables, emptying ashtrays and collecting glasses. Not tonight, though. Tonight the Bossman’s pals had come over from Fife to visit him. There were four of them, four brothers who together ran a butchers shop across there. By the sound of it, they and the Bossman were all having a roaring time of it.
When they weren’t working as butchers, the brothers formed a barbershop quartet and sang in local clubs and pubs, where they were very popular by all accounts. They called themselves The Flesher Four. They were an odd-looking bunch as far as Dan was concerned. Brothers they may have been, but not one resembled the other in appearance. The eldest and loudest was wee and fat, a roly-poly like the Bossman. By complete contrast, the next loudest was easily six and a half feet and built like a rugby prop. Then there was one who looked like a cross between the first two, neither roly-poly nor big and muscular. The last of them was also the smallest and skinniest and quietest – and ironically the one who supplied the quartet’s baritone voice.
No sooner had Dan returned behind the counter when he heard The Flesher Four break into song next door. He had no idea what the song was, but the sound of it was enough for him to shake his head and scowl.
“Fuckin’ barbershop shit,” he muttered to Jake before seeking out the next customer to be served among the four-deep sea of faces, all demanding attention.
Half an hour later, as often occurred on busy nights, there was a lull at the bar. With everyone having been served for the moment, the space in front of the counter was suddenly clear. Jake immediately took the opportunity to go out on the floor and do the Bossman’s job, while Dan re-filled the sink beneath the counter and set about washing the masses of empty glasses that had collected on top of it. Having been running the lounge bar every weekend for the best part of two years, the two nineteen-year-old pals undertook these tasks automatically, without the need for prior discussion.
When he looked up from his work for a moment, Dan watched in dismay as another set of brothers stumbled into the bar and sat themselves down on barstools at the counter. The three Thomsons were as disparate in appearance as The Flesher Four. Shuggie Thomson, the eldest, was tall and gaunt with long, lank hair. Of his smaller and younger siblings, one was broad and beefy, while the other was more weaselly-like with a wiry frame and narrow face. All three worked on the coopers floor in the local whisky bond. The coopers had a reputation for being the hardest guys in the bond, guys you didn’t mess with. It was said that they drank copious amounts of 120 degree proof unblended whisky and had lead-lined stomachs as a result. From their shambling gait and glassy-eyed appearance, Dan reckoned the Thomsons had recently been indulging in some of that hard stuff.
Dan dried his hands and approached them. “What can I get ye, gents?” he asked, smiling, hiding his dismay.
Shuggie, who sat in the middle of the trio, sighed loudly. “Three pints ae heavy,” he barked, not even bothering to look at Dan.
“Please,” said Dan quietly, still smiling.
“Whit?” growled Shuggie. Now he was bothering to look, squinting at Dan with bloodshot eyes.
“Say please, I said.”
Dan and Jake ran a tight ship. All their regular customers understood that if they wanted to drink in the town’s most popular bar they had to stay polite. Even the roughest, toughest, meanest matelots from the naval base along the road knew the score. Shuggie Thomson either didn’t know or was too drunk to care if he did. Either way, he moved remarkably quickly for a drunk man, his right hand shooting out, grabbing Dan’s tie and pulling Dan’s face so close to his own that Dan could smell his stale whisky breath.
“I’ll gie ye please, ya cheeky wee cunt,” Shuggie rasped into Dan’s face. “Three pints ae heavy – now!”
Barely more than five feet six, Dan struggled to keep his feet on the raised platform behind the counter. But he didn’t show his discomfort. In fact, he didn’t show any reaction, other than to continue smiling. And while he smiled, he cursed the Bossman again for making him wear the tie. And the fucking shirt. And the poncey fucking nylon jacket. The Bossman’s idea of a uniform.
Keeping his eyes fixed on Shuggie’s eyes, he said softly, “Swear once mair an’ I’ll bar ye.”
Spluttering, lost for words, Shuggie could only tighten his grip on the tie and pull harder. Having managed to wedge his knees underneath the sink, Dan didn’t budge. He knew that couldn’t last, though, that one more vicious tug by Shuggie would have his skinny frame careering headfirst over the countertop and into Shuggie’s lap. He also knew that the permanent smile on his face would be goading Shuggie into doing something more drastic. But he refused to change his expression, to display any sign of weakness to the bully. And for the moment there was a standoff while Shuggie collected his thoughts.
Jake had returned from the floor by that time. Although he was busy serving the new wave of customers who had been queuing at the counter while he was away, he kept a close eye on the drama unfolding next to him. He noticed from their glazed expressions that, thankfully, the two Thomson brothers who flanked Shuggie seemed disinterested in the drama, as if that sort of thing was a commonplace occurrence when their big brother was the worse for wear.
“Three fuckin’ pints pronto,” Shuggie spoke at last, “or I’ll drag ye ower here and snap ye in two.”
Dan shrugged. “That’s it, “ he said. “Ye’re barred. I did warn ye. Now please leave the premises before I call the Polis.”
There was another pause. Blocking out all the other sounds and movements in the place, Dan watched Shuggie’s eyes for an indication of the onslaught to come. At that moment, no-one existed in the universe except him and Shuggie.
While the staring match continued, Dan suddenly sensed Jake standing next to him. Unseen to Shuggie and his brothers, Jake was pressing something into his right hand. Something familiar. It was the club, of course! The club they kept behind the bar in case of trouble. The thing was, though, that it wasn’t really a club. It was the top end of a broom handle that had broken off one night when Jake’s sweeping up was a bit too rigorous. It was light with a rubber tip, but it could give someone a fair sting if they were skelped with it.
After a moment’s thought, Dan decided the club would have little effect on Shuggie. It would simply bounce off the man’s thick skull and make matters even worse. As Shuggie’s grip on Dan’s tie tightened further and as Dan’s feet began to lift up from the floor, he knew that something with more clout was called for. Pushing the club back into Jake’s hand, he felt on the draining board for the last glass he had washed, one of those thick dimple pint mugs favoured by many of the English matelots. Locating the glass, Dan grabbed it by its handle. Wielded upside-down like that, he knew it could give Shuggie a severely sore face. He was ready to act now. All he was waiting for was the slightest flicker of movement by Shuggie.
Seconds later, Shuggie did move – but not of his own accord. He suddenly let go of Dan’s tie when wee roly-poly from The Flesher Four rushed up behind him, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, lifted him bodily out of his barstool with what seemed like superhuman strength and proceeded to frogmarch him along the corridor towards the hotel’s main door. Simultaneously, the rest of the quartet had surrounded Shuggie’s brothers, who without much of a protest let themselves be escorted from the bar. Even the mousy baritone had a hold of an arm of one of the brothers as they all headed up the corridor.
Open-mouthed, Dan and Jake abandoned their posts to follow the procession. They were in time to see roly-poly slamming a cursing, struggling Shuggie face first against a wall. When a more subdued Shuggie turned his head momentarily after that, Dan was certain he glimpsed fear in the bully’s eyes.
The procession moved on, with the Bossman shouting from his position of safety at its rear, “Yous three are barred, by the way.”
As Dan and Jake made their way back to the bar, a clearly impressed Dan nodded to himself. “Ye ken what,” he said to Jake, “that barbershop shit is beginnin’ tae grow oan me.”
Usually on such a busy night, the Bossman would be out on the floor, helping Jake and him by clearing tables, emptying ashtrays and collecting glasses. Not tonight, though. Tonight the Bossman’s pals had come over from Fife to visit him. There were four of them, four brothers who together ran a butchers shop across there. By the sound of it, they and the Bossman were all having a roaring time of it.
When they weren’t working as butchers, the brothers formed a barbershop quartet and sang in local clubs and pubs, where they were very popular by all accounts. They called themselves The Flesher Four. They were an odd-looking bunch as far as Dan was concerned. Brothers they may have been, but not one resembled the other in appearance. The eldest and loudest was wee and fat, a roly-poly like the Bossman. By complete contrast, the next loudest was easily six and a half feet and built like a rugby prop. Then there was one who looked like a cross between the first two, neither roly-poly nor big and muscular. The last of them was also the smallest and skinniest and quietest – and ironically the one who supplied the quartet’s baritone voice.
No sooner had Dan returned behind the counter when he heard The Flesher Four break into song next door. He had no idea what the song was, but the sound of it was enough for him to shake his head and scowl.
“Fuckin’ barbershop shit,” he muttered to Jake before seeking out the next customer to be served among the four-deep sea of faces, all demanding attention.
Half an hour later, as often occurred on busy nights, there was a lull at the bar. With everyone having been served for the moment, the space in front of the counter was suddenly clear. Jake immediately took the opportunity to go out on the floor and do the Bossman’s job, while Dan re-filled the sink beneath the counter and set about washing the masses of empty glasses that had collected on top of it. Having been running the lounge bar every weekend for the best part of two years, the two nineteen-year-old pals undertook these tasks automatically, without the need for prior discussion.
When he looked up from his work for a moment, Dan watched in dismay as another set of brothers stumbled into the bar and sat themselves down on barstools at the counter. The three Thomsons were as disparate in appearance as The Flesher Four. Shuggie Thomson, the eldest, was tall and gaunt with long, lank hair. Of his smaller and younger siblings, one was broad and beefy, while the other was more weaselly-like with a wiry frame and narrow face. All three worked on the coopers floor in the local whisky bond. The coopers had a reputation for being the hardest guys in the bond, guys you didn’t mess with. It was said that they drank copious amounts of 120 degree proof unblended whisky and had lead-lined stomachs as a result. From their shambling gait and glassy-eyed appearance, Dan reckoned the Thomsons had recently been indulging in some of that hard stuff.
Dan dried his hands and approached them. “What can I get ye, gents?” he asked, smiling, hiding his dismay.
Shuggie, who sat in the middle of the trio, sighed loudly. “Three pints ae heavy,” he barked, not even bothering to look at Dan.
“Please,” said Dan quietly, still smiling.
“Whit?” growled Shuggie. Now he was bothering to look, squinting at Dan with bloodshot eyes.
“Say please, I said.”
Dan and Jake ran a tight ship. All their regular customers understood that if they wanted to drink in the town’s most popular bar they had to stay polite. Even the roughest, toughest, meanest matelots from the naval base along the road knew the score. Shuggie Thomson either didn’t know or was too drunk to care if he did. Either way, he moved remarkably quickly for a drunk man, his right hand shooting out, grabbing Dan’s tie and pulling Dan’s face so close to his own that Dan could smell his stale whisky breath.
“I’ll gie ye please, ya cheeky wee cunt,” Shuggie rasped into Dan’s face. “Three pints ae heavy – now!”
Barely more than five feet six, Dan struggled to keep his feet on the raised platform behind the counter. But he didn’t show his discomfort. In fact, he didn’t show any reaction, other than to continue smiling. And while he smiled, he cursed the Bossman again for making him wear the tie. And the fucking shirt. And the poncey fucking nylon jacket. The Bossman’s idea of a uniform.
Keeping his eyes fixed on Shuggie’s eyes, he said softly, “Swear once mair an’ I’ll bar ye.”
Spluttering, lost for words, Shuggie could only tighten his grip on the tie and pull harder. Having managed to wedge his knees underneath the sink, Dan didn’t budge. He knew that couldn’t last, though, that one more vicious tug by Shuggie would have his skinny frame careering headfirst over the countertop and into Shuggie’s lap. He also knew that the permanent smile on his face would be goading Shuggie into doing something more drastic. But he refused to change his expression, to display any sign of weakness to the bully. And for the moment there was a standoff while Shuggie collected his thoughts.
Jake had returned from the floor by that time. Although he was busy serving the new wave of customers who had been queuing at the counter while he was away, he kept a close eye on the drama unfolding next to him. He noticed from their glazed expressions that, thankfully, the two Thomson brothers who flanked Shuggie seemed disinterested in the drama, as if that sort of thing was a commonplace occurrence when their big brother was the worse for wear.
“Three fuckin’ pints pronto,” Shuggie spoke at last, “or I’ll drag ye ower here and snap ye in two.”
Dan shrugged. “That’s it, “ he said. “Ye’re barred. I did warn ye. Now please leave the premises before I call the Polis.”
There was another pause. Blocking out all the other sounds and movements in the place, Dan watched Shuggie’s eyes for an indication of the onslaught to come. At that moment, no-one existed in the universe except him and Shuggie.
While the staring match continued, Dan suddenly sensed Jake standing next to him. Unseen to Shuggie and his brothers, Jake was pressing something into his right hand. Something familiar. It was the club, of course! The club they kept behind the bar in case of trouble. The thing was, though, that it wasn’t really a club. It was the top end of a broom handle that had broken off one night when Jake’s sweeping up was a bit too rigorous. It was light with a rubber tip, but it could give someone a fair sting if they were skelped with it.
After a moment’s thought, Dan decided the club would have little effect on Shuggie. It would simply bounce off the man’s thick skull and make matters even worse. As Shuggie’s grip on Dan’s tie tightened further and as Dan’s feet began to lift up from the floor, he knew that something with more clout was called for. Pushing the club back into Jake’s hand, he felt on the draining board for the last glass he had washed, one of those thick dimple pint mugs favoured by many of the English matelots. Locating the glass, Dan grabbed it by its handle. Wielded upside-down like that, he knew it could give Shuggie a severely sore face. He was ready to act now. All he was waiting for was the slightest flicker of movement by Shuggie.
Seconds later, Shuggie did move – but not of his own accord. He suddenly let go of Dan’s tie when wee roly-poly from The Flesher Four rushed up behind him, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, lifted him bodily out of his barstool with what seemed like superhuman strength and proceeded to frogmarch him along the corridor towards the hotel’s main door. Simultaneously, the rest of the quartet had surrounded Shuggie’s brothers, who without much of a protest let themselves be escorted from the bar. Even the mousy baritone had a hold of an arm of one of the brothers as they all headed up the corridor.
Open-mouthed, Dan and Jake abandoned their posts to follow the procession. They were in time to see roly-poly slamming a cursing, struggling Shuggie face first against a wall. When a more subdued Shuggie turned his head momentarily after that, Dan was certain he glimpsed fear in the bully’s eyes.
The procession moved on, with the Bossman shouting from his position of safety at its rear, “Yous three are barred, by the way.”
As Dan and Jake made their way back to the bar, a clearly impressed Dan nodded to himself. “Ye ken what,” he said to Jake, “that barbershop shit is beginnin’ tae grow oan me.”
About the Author
Brendan Gisby is McStoryteller-in-Residence. He's the author of four novels, three biographies and several short story collections.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.
His official author's website is Blazes Boylan's Book Bazaar. And his books are displayed at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.