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“Morning Vronika,” (they could never get my name right)

Click to enlarge ... "Roundheads" and "Cavaliers" A small disagreement with the locals First UK May Day holiday 1978 New Years Eve (pregnant with Kirk) Captain of the girls' "Tug'o'War" team To the "Victrix" the spoils "Tales from the Bar Side" 18 short stories, PDF 1.3 Mb

"Tales from the Bar Side"

In 2005, Veronica wrote a collection of short stories based on our experiences of managing the "Oak Tavern" during the years 1996-1980. The pub was situated, in what has been described in much English satire, as typically suburban - Surbiton in Surrey, England, just south east of London.

Not far from Kingston University ("Poly" in those days) the "Oak" was frequented by mainly students and transient young working people. Rock musicians, telephone technicians, carpet layers, dustmen, artists, writers, dramatists, parachute jumpers, "Roundheads" and "King's Army", and the occasional on-duty plain clothes policemen were just some of the characters that made up the "mix". What we all had in common was that we were young and looking for a serious "time out" like there was no tomorrow.

This mix is captured as Veronica relives some of the highs spots, and the low ones, and sometimes just the everyday stuff - its amusing and its human moments. In her own words ...

"Down the Hatch"

(From "Tales from the Bar Side" by Veronica Collens)

The ‘fuels’ of the pub were delivered through a chute which led directly to the cellar from a hatch door at car park level. These deliveries would occur once a week and were very noisy affairs beginning with the crash of brakes and clanging of barrels as the huge brewery lorry came to a standstill beside the hatch door. The draymen were vociferous people impatient to get the delivery over and done with so they could take the rest of the day off and go down the pub. “Morning Gov, ‘ere we are then,” and a crumpled delivery note would be handed over, “check it as we go along, all right. I think you’ll find it’s all in order.”

There would always be three of them. One was the driver who usually remained in the cab, having done his bit of getting them there. He would relax smoking a quiet fag while the other two - huge chaps in toe capped boots, leather aprons and gauntlets, that came up past their elbows, effected the delivery.

There was one particular delivery that stands out in my mind. It went like this:

“Morning Vronika,” (they could never get my name right) and a drayman clattered down the cellar steps two at a time to unlock and fling open the hatch door.

“’ere I am John, ready John?” he shouted up to his mate who was at the top of the chute.

“Right John,” his mate responded throwing down a heavy foam pad which John One placed at the bottom of the chute to protect each barrel as it landed.

John One: “Right you are John, I’ve got it ‘ere in place.”

John Two: “Right then John, ’ere she comes,” and a barrel, to which a rope with a hook attached to it, slid down the chute skillfully guided by the drayman above.

John One: “Okeedokee John. Got it. Next.” And down would come another barrel. Shane would check them off on the delivery note. It was a miracle that he never got run over by a barrel. “all right John if that’s the lot for barrels, lets ‘ave the bokkles.”

John Two: “OK John, ‘ere comes the Wervington White Shield,” and a crate flew down the chute. Shane checked them off on the delivery note - crates of lager, Guinness, light ale etc. That he never got run down by a flying crate is also a miracle.

John One: “Right John. Shane ‘ere says that’s the lot for bokkles. Ready for the empties?”

John Two: “Yep, send ‘em up John.” John One attached the hook and rope to the empty barrels one at a time and John Two hauled them up the chute. Boy did they make a noise.

This was a big delivery stocking up for Christmas week. It must have taken close to an hour. When it was over, Shane invited the two draymen, who had taken care of the delivery, for a drink.

I came up from the kitchen, “John,” I said to one of them, “don’t forget the driver, what’s his name again?”

“Oh, that’s Syd. But I am not John. I’m Cyril and this is Fred.” They’d taken their gauntlets off and we shook hands by way of introduction. “I’ll go get Syd.” He walked to the front door and opened it. “We’re ‘aving a little drink in ‘ere,” he shouted towards the lorry, “come and join us, all right John.”

“Right John,” said the voice from the lorry.

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Veronica Collens ©2005