Note: This story is set in England, during the '80s, when mobile telephones were still on the horizon, TV programmes were recorded on Video Tape and problems of 'erectile dysfunction' were kept very, very quiet . It is a work of fiction. All the parties represented are of a suitable age, ie., over 18. Please be aware that no authors were harmed during the writing and English English spelling is used.
In a traditional English pub (short for Public House), there were several bars: the Public (usually the largest), the Lounge (generally quieter, and better decorated) and the room often referred to as the "Back Bar," generally more comfortable than the 'Public Bar'. There were others, such as often found in very old (particularly Victorian) pubs, the Smoking Room and the Ladies Bar. A 'decent' lady was not to be seen in a pub unless accompanied by her man (and the single woman was Very Careful). But the Brewery fixed it so she could enjoy a glass of something - in a bar particularly for the ladies, who, presumably, enjoyed a glass of milk stout while their husbands enjoyed a pint of Bitter in the public bar.
Sincere thanks to Dr Miss for her guidance.
*****
Charlie sat in a corner seat of the pub, reading the local paper. The "back bar" of the pub was a rich brown, the dark colour of real age, and boasted a publican who firmly resisted the blandishments of the brewery wanting to convert it to a "theme pub".
Mahogany and copper shone on the bar top and the beer was good, cellar cool and hand pumped. The horse-brasses shone with real polished care, the old wood centre beam was black with age. The pictures on the walls were a mixture of sepia prints of old past publicans and regular customers, the cricket team gatherings and a few sporting prints from a time when Britain really was Great although it was not easy to gauge an age when this might have been. The windows were small and overlooked the trim garden.
Charlie was now over 40 but he did not look it. He was going a fashionable shade of grey on top, but still in reasonable trim. All the job adverts he had studied had wanted young trainees or shelf fillers at not a lot by way of pay, and he was too young for the local DIY place which deliberately sought mature people for the staff.
Job-hunting had been one of the responsibilities that had been impressed on him at the sessions in the Hospital following his breakdown. But there was another, almost unspoken, thing. Mention mental health problems and you were immediately regarded by all and sundry as unstable and untrustworthy at best, if not a newly-released rapist or murderer. "Suitable only for menial tasks and requiring close supervision" was the common perception. It did not make for a favourable entry on his CV. It was simply not true. As one therapist put it, "think about it as a broken bone between the ears." Try telling that to the potential employer!
The two years of recuperation following the breakdown of his mind, his marriage and his thriving company had been a time of continual discovery. Sights, sounds, and even smells all came slowly, or sometimes in bursts. His period in the hospital was not one he'd forget, nor did he particularly want to. He had been a little peeved about letters from her solicitor at a time when he could not do much. The divorce had come through whilst he was still 'in therapy' - as if by mail order, he thought.
Fortunately, he'd had insurance and enough put by to pay off the mortgage and most of the other debts. Even allowing for the division of the spoils he was not as badly off as some.
He was off the more aggressive tranquillisers, thank Heavens. He had been for a while now, although the Doctors had let him keep a few in a sealed bottle which was marked "In case of Emergency, Break the Glass," in tribute to hospital humour. He was down to twice-a-year visits, and he felt, if not at peace, that he could handle most of life's crises without recourse to any pills apart from the occasional something to help him sleep. The lads on the cricket team quietly kept an eye on him and made sure he'd not have too many beers.
He had eventually started work as a general factotum in a busy office of 'Blades', the local computer business. 'General Clerk' was the term used on his employment slip. The job had been negotiated for him by the charitable endeavours of the Hospital Trust after he was officially discharged. He was now officially sane — and single.
He was given leave when he needed it for appointments. At first, he felt 'supervised' by nearly every junior in the place. In a short time, his confidence increased and he proved that he still could mix it with the best of them, even if the most junior of Clerks was paid more. He managed to pay his way and that counted for a lot, in his mind.
As the office worked flexible hours, his time was never really lost; a fact which was noted favourably by his supervisors. And it was noticed that his opinion on this or that technical point was occasionally solicited by several influential workers.
He fixed up one printer problem in a few moments, and sorted out a Word Processor to the satisfaction of the secretary concerned and the visible relief of the department supervisor. Even programmers and technical help specialists occasionally made time for a coffee and a chat.
He had a computer at home, used as much for games as keeping his hand in with the programming, but he read books from the Library and even bought a few. He was working on a tricky bit of graphics code now, shaving a bit here, a bit there and it worked. He was quite pleased with it.
What did not please him was that following the divorce, his ex-wife Jan had quickly "taken up with someone new." Later, unsubstantiated, rumour had it that the someone new was a She, not a He. And the Someone in question was, apparently, none other than his former secretary and factotum, Lois, although he seriously doubted this. Perhaps, he'd wondered, this was why the settlement was so 'fair', as his solicitor put it. The implication was that Jan wanted 'out' and was prepared to do almost anything to leave. He'd managed to keep the house, for example, although it was rather sparsely furnished. The problem was not high in his mind, though.
In his new job, Charlie soon found he was spending more time with the programmers and the guys in computer support, where his demonstrated expertise was both useful and noted. Most of the guys seemed to welcome his visits. Once or twice he went in to help out when there was a bit of a panic and he thought he'd made his mark rather than blotting his copy book. When a minor vacancy occurred, he was asked by the Manager if he'd like to give it a try, with the proviso that if things did not work out for any reason, he'd still keep his old job if he wanted it. "It would mean," said the manager, "more money, more time spent at a computer and increased responsibility. Could you still hack it?"
Charlie said "Yes," almost without thinking about it.
Of course, it had meant less time with the secretaries, but most were pleased to see his increasing self-confidence and skills rewarded even if one or two seemed disappointed at his departure. Once or twice he thought he'd received a glance that suggested that a date might be considered.
His pulse rate rose at thoughts of an evening out, but it had come to nothing. He was celibate, and had no plans imperil his position at work. As a fellow hospital inmate once put it: "You don't puke on your own doorstep."
All the same, one or two of the ladies looked quite attractive especially in summer when the skirts were shorter and the blouses thin. He'd smiled as he reminded himself to get a few condoms in, just in case.
But now, the Cricket Match was high on his agenda. The prospect of a good cricket match at the weekend whetted Charlie's appetite and he went down to his local for a chat with the other players and to discuss any problems with transport and the usual things which can spoil an otherwise good day. The rain was persistent but the forecast was good and the pitch usually drained well. Meeting over, he and a couple of the lads were chatting about their week when Charlie made to go and get his round.
The woman in front of him at the bar looked familiar but he did not quite know why. She had a shapely figure and strong shoulders.
If she wasn't a swimmer, he thought, she did a lot of training in a gym. She turned away from the bar and nearly collided with him. She recognised him first and a smile lit her face as she said "Charlie: It
is
Charlie, isn't it?"
He looked at her, feeling rather embarrassed and suddenly confused as a million thoughts charged through his brain before he stuttered: "Yes."
