Pains of Glass

‘Get on with yer!’ said Bob, smiling down and waving the dog away up the path home.  A little while later he reached the flatter part of the path at the boundary of the village of Kidmore Heath; the walk was now easier over the soft earth, shifting slightly under his boots and thumb-stick. Bess was now looped on the old rope held loosely in Bob’s hand, pacing herself to the speed of her master’s footfalls and looking up lovingly from time to time as if checking to see if things were okay, and knowing a bowl of food waited for her in the cool comfort of Summer Cottage. Bob heard the low growl of a lorry or tractor starting somewhere close by and thought of his son Mark fighting his way through the grime and noise of the M25 every day, just to sit in a sweaty office punching computer keys and then fight the whole way back again, getting home well after his kids were in bed. Mark would spend the evening stuck in the armchair, whisky in hand, in front of the telly. Daft sod, Bob thought, where did I go wrong? He turned the final corner of the lane, headed into the village proper around Long Barn, and went up to the Bottle & Jug Pub, where so many of the villagers’ lives were spent every day.

Today the scene that met Bob’s eyes was different. Instead of the usual view of the ‘picture book’ inn, with its bleached white and wooden framed walls, thatched roof, and sloping chimney that never stopped belching welcoming grey smoke, there was a scene of devastation. Three flatbed trucks were parked in the car park with a gang of workers manhandling large panels of wire mesh fencing onto an ever-growing pile on the front lawn of the pub. A tall, skinny man in a bright yellow hard hat, holding a large roll of paper open in front of him, was pointing to an area of the lawn where a man in workman’s clothes was hitting a large red wooden peg into the turf with a sledgehammer in long slow strikes. Bob was dumbstruck; surely they weren’t going to change it into one of those trendy, yuppie town bars, with alco-pops, no glasses, and loud banging music? He had to ask what was going on.

With Bess barking at his side, Bob shouted at the Hard Hat. ‘Hey, what’s going on? Refurb I s’pose? Making it trendy? Won’t work here, mate!’

‘Hard Hat’ looked up and grinned at the old man, in his concrete-splattered, oversized and torn reefer jacket, dishevelled shirt, corduroys, and worn boots.

‘No chance, mate. Knocking it down. Five exclusive homes going up here. Prime building site, this,’ he said, pointing over his shoulder.