OurLot Pub

OurLot Pub

a modern Pioneer story

Annie slowed her horse and pushed the brim of her hat up off her eyes.  Beads of perspiration lay like condensation on a cold beer glass on her forehead.  The ride up from town had been slow.  The trail across the Prairie often fading from her as the warm, harsh wind that blew all before it camouflaged the hoof prints of Baby Face Bourbon’s horse.  Squinting into the sun she saw before her a shallow valley filled with a shimmering lake, cool and inviting in the early Summer sun.  She knew though that this was an illusion.  The lake was real enough, but the hidden rivers that flowed within it, swollen by the torrents of rain that has fallen and run off the surrounding, surprisingly green and lush land, rendered it treacherous and unforgiving to the casual swimmer.  But her horse could drink at least.

Back in the small and sparsely populated town on whose behalf Annie was on her quest, Mayor Sparky was nervous.  She didn’t mind the odd visitor.  In fact the town welcomed tourists with their hungry eyes and hungrier bellies.  The newly reopened pub was always happy to see them and tried hard to met their every gastronomic desire.  Since Pat, or Gollywog as she liked to be called, their English Executive Chef had arrived, she had even managed to achieve a regular seafood delivery from far away St John’s.  Three thousand hard miles were driven every week just to bring the freshest prawns, lobster and crab as well as a myriad selection of other fish and shellfish.  People came up from Regina and Saskatoon just to sample her fresh seafood salad.  Rich plump shrimp, a whole lobster, king crab decorated by mussels, tender squid and a dozen oysters laid on a mountain of ice with a crisp salad and plenty of French bread alongside.  The Pub’s signature dish.  One worth a fifty or even hundred mile journey in these gas starved days.

But Sparky’s concern wasn’t about the Pub.  Though she had more than enough of those. But something that had happened there earlier.    Everyday, folk from around the World arrived to stay at the Pub.  Canada’s largest cooperative catering venue.  They had wondrous names - Ruby, Myklj, Pumpkinjam, Katesmamma, Agfarm, P1kef1sh.  They all had their part to play in the future of this town.  But for now, her main concern was Ruby’s upset.  Placid Ruby.  An English import.  Quiet but a vixen when riled.  She it was that had introduced the town to the delights of the English biscuit.  For too long the US cookie had reigned supreme, but now it was the hour of the Custard Cream. Nice, Viennese and that king of biscuits, the Bourbon.  That’s when the trouble had started.  Sparky had welcomed this invasion of biscuits.  She ran a tight town, nothing happened that she didn’t sanction, but biscuits seemed so, well, civilised.  Her own notions of Englishness, fair play, bracing walks, pukka chaps and  sound, sensible, no nonsense womenfolk would all stop and consume a biscuit or two at the appropriate times.  Indeed Sparky had received a complete mandate by the Village Council to compel all businesses to stop work for fifteen minutes at eleven in the morning and three in the afternoon for “tea”.  The pub had started late afternoon cream teas that had been such a hit that Sparky had started to import cream from farms in neighbouring villages.

That morning the village had been unusually quiet.  Many of the pub people had gone down to Moose Jaw to see Captain Jack’s River Tour.  They wanted to see if they could start something similar in their town, although on horseback.  Funny how, even after such a short time, these immigrants regarded their new home as “their” town.  Sparky was happy with that, provided that they did not forget where the real power base lay.  She had served this community diligently and was rightfully their Mayor.  She knew though, that there would be no threats to her.  She was loved by all these new folk.  They had come to see her and help her in her quest to get the village thriving again.  No, today was quiet.  Ruby was outside the pub, drinking her coffee and waiting for her latest delivery of English biscuits.  A whole consignment of those gloriously chocolate  Bourbons that she was so partial too.  She loved to see people experiencing their first taste.  If they bought a packet she always gave them a coffee in a  real ceramic mug bearing the slogan “I’d sooner be drinking Brandy - but this will do” in which to dunk their biscuit.  She now stood impatiently waiting for the truck.  She peered into the distance willing it to appear, like an excited child waiting for a loved one to appear.  Normally patient and unhurried,  nothing excited Ruby like a biscuit delivery.  Brown cardboard boxes protectively cradling their precious cargo would be ripped open by her eager hands.  A private packet always went into her old cake tin that contained her private stock.  Biscuits that she would sneak away and devout quietly, away from prying eyes as she communicated with Mr Ruby back in England as he tended his allotment.

But today though, Ruby was to be disappointed.  The truck arrived alright.  Dusty and marked by the miles that it had journeyed with it’s special, precious cargo.  Pulling up in a  cacophony of air brakes and shrieking rubber the truck eased itself to a halt.  The driver, sad and frightened, fell from his cab and stood before Ruby.  Remembering his manners, he snatched his old battered baseball cap from his head to reveal a white patch untroubled by the weather beaten skin that was his main physical characteristic and started to gabble his explanation.  “Baby Face Bourbon sprung me ten miles back”  came the hurried words.  Baby Face Bourbon was a notorious biscuit rustler.  Whole trucks of biscuits and before that cookies had disappeared into his vast biscuit filled lair.  Nobody had ever seen his hidey hole, but it has to be capacious to store all the sweet comestibles that he has stolen over the years.  A hand held over her mouth Ruby went pale with shock.  “I’m sorry ma’am, I couldn’t do anything.  He came out of the sun at me.  Suddenly he was there, on his black horse.  They call it Chocolate Cream I think”.  The mere mention of the word “chocolate” brought a sudden gasp to Ruby’s throat.  She was angry now.  “Go get Sparky” she told the hapless man.  “Why were men so useless” she asked herself.  They had their good points of course, but losing a whole shipment of biscuits was too much.

Sparky, as was to be expected grilled the driver until he could be grilled no more.  Where, when, what did he look like.  In which direction had he gone.  Did he have a truck too?  She had been surprised to be told that baby Face appeared to have a whole train of pack horses and had spent over an hour loading them with his favourite biscuits.  She was less astonished that this useless driver had just sat there and let him do it.  But nothing really surprised her now.  Not in respect of people like this.  Anything for an easy life.  Just pay me the money and don’t expect any responsibility in return.  She told him to park his truck where it was less unsightly, round the back of the pub would do and then go and beg Pat for a meal.  Keep out of Ruby’s way as she would not want to see him for a while.  Sparky was angry now.  How dare this Baby Face Bourbon come onto her patch.  She would hunt him down and make him pay.  But who to choose to go and find him?  With most of the likely suspects out of town this was not going to be an easy choice.  The she remembered the Sheep Fair.

The Sheep Fair was anew institution that Sparky had initiated to try to draw some more business into town.  She had of course called up her old friend Annie to help her out.  Annie knew about life.  She worked hard and played harder.  She has livestock, principally sheep and would know what to do to organise a grand event.  She lived close enough, but not too close. She always had feedstuff in her pockets and could be guaranteed to start a rip roaring party where the booze and Mary Jane flowed and where men had better look out.  Annie was fond of her men, and worked them hard.  The thought of all this work to bring her pleasure didn’t put them off, still they came, begging for her attentions.  She would be just the person to help Sparky track down Baby Face Bourbon.  She called Annie over to her “office” at her newly refurbished house.  The act of the last loser that Sparky had tangled with.  His was the Truck parked up with the sign painted on it’s side “Notice to Fire Dept:  If this is ablaze.  Do Not Extinguish!”  He knew his place now and Sparky was pleased to have been the one to teach him.

She quickly outlined the size of the dilemma to Annie.  The latter, always game for adventure said that she’d get right on it.  Sparky was nervous.  Annie was her closest friend, should she let her go alone.  But nobody else could ride or trail a spoor like her.  She beged her to take care and not to take any chances.  All that she needed to do was find the villain and report back.  She knew that Annie wouldn’t leave it there.  But she had to take the chance that the wicked perpetrator of this heinous crime could be apprehended before he had a chance to hide the evidence.  A woman with a horse was the only possible solution.

Leaving town East, Annie quickly picked up the tell tale trail of hoof prints.  Here and there she found small piles of biscuity crumbs.  Clearly Baby Face liked to stop for his tea breaks.  The warm sun was frequently replaced by light showers that blew in across the Prairie.  Heralded by a change of wind tempo she could see black clouds scudding towards her like some crazy, suicidal insect hell bent on adding itself to the pile of siblings all ready on the windscreen.  But Annie had no screen, just her sun glasses and the brim of her hat. Wet and dry in equal measure, she toiled across the savannah, frustrated when the trail ran cold, and elated when she picked it up again.  Her bay horse indefatigable, occasionally bending her neck to pull at a tuft of spiky prairie grass, but always marching onwards.  Until, at length they arrived at the neck of the valley where we met them first.

Now she sat astride her patient mare and contemplated the vista.  Baby Face had to have stopped here.  His horses would be thirsty, as she was.  Smelling water, they would have been bound to pull him to the lakeside to slake their parched throats.