We'd been out in the snow for over a week. The temperature had never risen above minus twenty, and I felt I would never be warm again. It had been the same old story, my sergeant had told me. "We'll spend a week on exercise in the middle of a Norwegian winter, and the next posting we get will be to a desert." And so it had proved. We'd been notified that our next tour would take us to Oman, so now I had forty-eight hours to kill before we embarked for home and our new assignment.
Here I was, a twenty-six year old Captain, bored, cold and desperately in need of a drink. We were stationed at a Norwegian Army base that had probably the worst Officers Mess I'd ever encountered, so I decided to try and find a bar in the town that had grown up around it. I grabbed a lift with a couple of young Norwegian squaddies who were off on a forty-eight hour pass. The younger, Erik, suggested I try the Red Bar, which was often frequented by visiting Officers. "Very stylish" he told me.
They dropped me outside, and I stopped to gaze in through the large plate glass window. The place was packed, and I could hear – no, I could feel on my chest – the heavy thump of a sound system in overdrive. I wanted a drink, yes, but I didn't want to go deaf at the same time. I decided to give it a miss, and passed on down the street. I found a second bar – and then a third – but each was as crowded and as noisy as the first.
I was just beginning to despair at ever getting a drink when I caught sight of a small bar in a side street. I almost missed it; the only indication that it was a bar at all was a small illuminated Pernod sign. I walked over, listening as I approached. It was quiet. Was it closed? No, the doorway, I saw, was lit, and through the glass I saw a couple of people sat at a table. This was more like it. I stepped inside, and the bell above the door tinkled.
There were five people inside; two young men sat in one corner, their table covered in empty beer bottles, an older couple, husband and wife I thought, sat at a table by the bar, deep in conversation and behind the bar a young girl was washing glasses in a small sink.
The two men watched me suspiciously as I approached the bar. I paid them no heed; I wanted a drink. The girl watched me approach, smiled, and said something in Norwegian that I didn't understand. "Vodka, please", I said, removing my coat.
"You are English?" she asked. "A soldier?"
"Yes" I said "A Marine, actually".
"My brother, he is a soldier – a Corporal."
"Really? I'm a Captain. Ben Jones, 45 commando." I said, offering her my hand.
"I am Maria," she said, taking it. "My father owns this bar."
Her fingers lingered for a second, and then she turned and poured me a shot of Vodka. "This one is, how do you say it..? 'on the house'."
"Well, thanks" I said, taking the proffered glass and swallowing down the contents in a single swift movement. I could feel the spirit slip down my throat, its fire warming my frozen core. I heard the doorbell jingle, and turned to see the backs of the two young men in the doorway, making a hasty exit.
"Soldiers" said Maria by way of explanation. "Probably out without permission. Officers – even British ones – make them nervous."
I took a moment to examine her; probably eighteen or nineteen, maybe five feet tall with blonde hair down to her shoulders framing a pretty, if slightly chubby face. She poured me a second drink, and then a third. I finished them both quickly and ordered a beer. I had warmed up sufficiently, I decided, and needed a long drink.
She uncapped the bottle and passed it across. As I took my first taste, the couple at the nearby table rose, took their coats, and headed off into the early evening darkness. "My last two regulars." she said. "I usually close up at seven." I glanced at the clock on the wall; it was already five past. "You want me to go?" I asked.
"No, no" she said. "I just didn't want you to think you were scaring away my customers."
I laughed, and she began to tell me about herself, the town, and the bar. Her father was a local businessman, and had owned the bar for twenty years. He also owned a nightclub, the Red Bar. Had I heard of it? I said I had past it, but hadn't been in. "It is not so good" she said. "Always there are fights between soldiers there. The police want to close it, but my father has lots of friends. It stays open. He wanted me to work there, too, but I do not like it so he lets me run this bar instead."
I said I liked the place, and she smiled. "I wish more people did," she said. "Today, all day, I have had only nine customers. This is why I close early." That was a shame, I said. I would have to find somewhere else to drink.
"No" she said. "For you I stay open."
"Then join me for a drink." I said.
"Thank you. But I do not drink when I am working."
I turned away and walked over to the door. I slid the bolt, pulled down the blind, crossed to the window and drew down the blind there, too. "Now", I said, "you are closed. Will you join me for a drink?"
She picked up a bottle of wine and a glass, and stepped out from behind the bar. As she did, she seemed to shrink, and I noticed that there was a step back there. She was tiny – a couple of inches under five feet, I judged. She was wearing a grey rollneck sleeveless sweater and short dark skirt, and she pointed to the table the two young men had vacated. I joined her as she cleared away the detritus of their drinking, disposing of the bottles in a small storeroom adjacent the bar. We sat, and as we drank she told me more about herself.
