The Inscrutable Charlie Muffin Read Free

if he wanted to eat. All he had at the flat was cold beef.
    Few people saw Charlie enter, because he didn’t want them to and had long ago perfected being unobtrusive. He reached the bar between a group of men to his left reallocating Britain’s oil wealth and a circle to his right undermining communist influence in Africa. The fruit machine was by the toilets. The people around had formed a kitty, in an effort to recover their money before closing time.
    The barmaid was a blonde, tightly corseted woman with the bright smile that barmaids share with politicians. Charlie estimated she was about twenty years older than the pub.
    ‘Whisky,’ said Charlie, unwilling to risk the beer. There would be no danger, provided he restricted himself to two.
    ‘And lunch,’ he said, when the woman returned with the drink.
    ‘There’s mince,’ she offered doubtfully, looking behind her to the serving hatch.
    ‘No,’ said Charlie. At least last week they’d disguised it with instant mashed potato.
    ‘Bread and cheese?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Beef salad?’
    ‘The guide book said three stars.’
    ‘Trouble in the kitchen.’
    ‘Bad day, then?’
    ‘Afraid so.’
    ‘Beef salad,’ said Charlie, resigned. He’d overcooked the meat at home anyway.
    The barmaid retreated to the kitchen hatch and Charlie looked around the bar, sipping his drink. There were pictures of men in flying gear standing alongside Battle of Britain aircraft, a propeller mounted over the bar and near the counter-flap a man who was obviously the landlord stood frequently touching the tips of a moustache that spread like wings across his face. Mechanic, guessed Charlie. He’d never met a World War II pilot who wore a moustache like that; something to do with the oxygen mask.
    Professional as the barmaid, the landlord isolated a new face and detached himself from the African group, moving down the bar. As the man approached, Charlie was aware of the critical examination; the man kept any expression of distaste from his face. Charlie resolved to get his suit pressed. And perhaps a new shirt.
    ‘Afternoon.’
    ‘Afternoon.’
    ‘Sorry about the food. Fire in the kitchen.’
    ‘Can’t be helped,’ said Charlie.
    ‘Repaired by next weekend.’
    ‘Afraid I won’t be here then,’ said Charlie.
    ‘Didn’t think I recognised you. Just passing through?’
    ‘Just passing through,’ agreed Charlie. As always. Never the same place twice, always polite but distant in any conversation.
    ‘Nice part of the country.’
    ‘Very attractive.’
    ‘Been here since ’48,’ said the landlord, hand moving automatically to his moustache.
    ‘Straight after the war, then?’ said Charlie, joining in the performance. Why not? he thought.
    ‘More or less. You serve?’
    ‘Bit too young,’ said Charlie. ‘Berlin airlift was around my time.’
    ‘Not the same,’ dismissed the man.
    ‘So I’ve heard.’
    ‘Had a good war,’ said the landlord. ‘Bloody good war.’
    Charlie avoided any reaction to the cliché. It sounded as obscene now as it had when he first heard it. The bastard who had taken over the department had had a good war. And tried to continue it, by setting him up to be killed.
    ‘There were a lot who didn’t,’ said Charlie.
    The landlord looked at him curiously, alert for mocker) then relaxed.
    ‘Sorry for them,’ he said insincerely. ‘I enjoyed my time.’
    His glass was empty, Charlie saw. He pushed it across to halt the reminiscence.
    ‘Could I have another? Large.’
    ‘Certainly.’
    Charlie knew the man would expect to be bought a drink. But he decided against it, even though it was the first conversation he had had for more than twenty-four hours. He wondered how the man would react to know he was serving whisky to someone technically a traitor to his country.
    The landlord returned with the drink and waited expectantly.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Charlie.
    There was an almost imperceptible shrug as the man took the money and returned