Page 7 of The Cocktail Bar
Chapter Four
RIVER
“What am I trying to prove, Mum?”
It had been a week since the local paper’s photographer, Cath Deacon, had unceremoniously burst onto the re-decorated premises. Her sneaky shot of River’s infamous self, dry shaking a Pisco Sour in its new role as cocktail bartender gracing the front page for all and sundry to debate its sheer arrogance at “attempting to spice up a former working men’s pub with Mai Tais and Moscow Mules.” The matching headline:Fallen Rock Star Returns to cause aRumble,making it very clear where the local media’s loyalties lay. But the sneaky jobs worth hadn’t stopped there. Oh no. Taking in the empty tables and chairs, she’d gone on a full blown front page rampage detailing his apparent failure in the business world, selective hearing filtering out River’s plain English reminder that it was still a couple of weeks before he officially opened the bar.
“That you’re following your heart, not giving a rip about the naysayers,” said Heather.
She flung her yarn out across the length of the floor, revealing a psychedelic rainbow-hued ‘red carpet’, hardly luring in the kind of punters River wished to attract. She nudged her specs higher up the ridge of her nose, took a deep breath and began counting stitches in a manner which suggested she had always known this would be par for the course.
“Maybe I should have stuck with what I knew, fizzled out into obscurity like an Adam Ant or a Sting—”
“Don’t you go knocking Sting; he’s still going strong, bless his chakras. You’ve got to have a loyalty to Sting somewhere in your heart.” She stopped stitching briefly, eyes fixed high above on the mock gold of the elaborate coving. “Remember the day he filmed theIf I Ever Lose my Faith in youvideo up on Glastonbury Tor? Oh, was your Aunt Sheba’s tarot reading ever right. She predicted I’d be entranced by a tall blonde stranger on a mound that very week. And what do you know; next day there I was following the film crew – you on my coattails, but still…”
A group of hippies peered into the doorway, pondered the offerings of the blackboard and gingerly climbed the steps, purple and green dreadlocks swinging like pendulums in perfect timing with the light jazz playing behind the bar.
“Heather, not now, looks like we’ve got our first customers—”
“Nah, you’re alright,” said the tallest in a loud voice, popping hope like a pin to a balloon. “Was just thinking,” he scratched his tangled head, “didn’t this used to be a pub? Run by some geezer who could get discounted weed?”
“It was the Ring O’Bells formerly, yes,” said River. “Slightly more refined these days,” he added under his breath as his hands transferred their frustration to the shiny steel cocktail shaker. “As for the hash supplies, I really wouldn’t know about that. Can I tempt you to a Tom Collins while you’re here? We’re ten minutes into Happy Hour. Not that I advertise it. Looks cheap, attracts the teenagers.”
“Defo not a Tom, mate. I’m thinking he might have been a Pete though. Yeah, that’s right, he was… and as for his last name, I ain’t got the foggiest. Swift transaction then we was always quick to get out of here, like… in case the pigs should be hovering.”
“How about a Daiquiri then, I’ve just blended up a fresh batch of watermelon.”
“You’re beginning to sound a little desperate, mate. I’ve already told you, we’re not here for your fancy shit with umbrellas… although I might have made an exception if you were serving up an Avalon Amber or a Tor in the Mist.”
River was speechless, Heather not so.
“Scarper and hop it,” she yelled uncharacteristically, pointing yarn needles as if she were a water dowser, an additional string to her bohemian bow which totally wouldn’t have surprised. “Do you have any idea how much work my son’s put into this place?”
“Well, dudes and dudettes,” Head Hippie ignored her and turned back to his gang, “it’s high time,” he paused for a laugh, which his entourage echoed back at him, “we tracked down the Lurve Bus and headed on down to Sir Michael of Eavis’s fest. Hash cakes for supper!”
“Fine, your loss, and don’t bother coming back,” said River.
Glastonbury bloody Festival. That was about right.
River had forgotten it started at the weekend, unbelievable really when he considered how many Junes he’d spent there himself. Especially the June that had changed his and Alice’s lives; the June when Blake and Lee would go one way to watch Fat Boy Slim’s much coveted ‘final performance before retirement’ in the navy and custard striped circus tent, the June when River and Alice would opt for the earthiness of The Levellers on the pyramid stage, the June when they were destined to meet two complete strangers from London in the crowd… strangers from London who soon became friends, friends who soon became band mates.
The June when Blake would return at ten to midnight only to find River and Alice entwined in his very own tent.
River stopped his vigorous shaking, bringing himself and his regrets back to the present: to trade or not to trade?
Anyone in their business-savvy mind would have assumed this was the best week in the year for making money if you were a local establishment. Except Pilton, the village where the festival actually took place was several miles away, luring potential punters like the Pied Piper. So that all that remained in the town were The Miffed, who had either been unable to obtain tickets and were mightily pissed off, or The Troublemakers, who – November’s carnival aside – patiently stored their pent-up testosterone for seven months, ready to let loose on The Outsiders. Both groups screamed Blake. And that was not good.
“Maybe we should close this week, Heather?”
“And why would you want to do that?”
“I just sense trouble on the horizon, you know, all these non-locals,” River stuck his two index fingers either side of his head for emphasis and wiggled them up and down, “invading the town.”
“Are you sure you’re not still harbouring a grudge because the big Mr Michael Eavis CBE never invited you and Avalonia to play at Glastonbury… not even on one of the fringe stages?” Heather picked at her yarn, head cocked to one side.
“Of course I’m not, no. I got over that like years ago.” River flicked at an ice shaving as if he were playing his favourite childhood game of Tiddlywinks.
“I’m glad to hear it, love. Anger is a bitter swine of a pill,” she said, making a concertina of her work and then resting it and needles on top of the nearest table to the bar. “Not that I’ve ever condoned the lack of an invitation, mind you. If he could give the time of day to that other local band… what are they called, Reeves...?” she furrowed her brow.
