I
There was never a house like that. It is worth repetition: there was never a house like that. First, it was not a house, it was a bar. Second, it was a terrible bar, undisputedly. Whatever coziness that once permeated between the walls and windows of that battered drinking hub was substituted, gradually, by drenched odors of beer soaked by old wood, the poor lights, and the recurrent cutlery noises and occasional yelling echoing somberly through the creaking floors and tables and seats and counter, always accompanied by the spilling and the flying saliva. And yet it was a house. Indeed, for Mr. Ripley, owner and official man-behind-the-counter, said so. “Can we smoke here?” they’d ask Mr. Ripley. “Can we use the ladies room?” “Yes”, he rumbled, “this is a house.” Never did he answer the latter part differently, no matter how outrageous or coarse the inquiring was. There had been nos and perhapses, but the wherefore was always the same. Rather strange it was his notion of a house.
The place was never lovely; once it was new, but it always lacked all kinds of individual finesse and subtle tastes. Had it been inviting and elegant, though, it would have been abandoned by its clientele quickly. Its greatest attribute was being there – for a long, long time. “D’ya know why we come here, Mr. Ripley?”, Mr. Goode, owner of Goode’s General Store and frequent customer, used to ask boastfully. “Because it’s here, it’s always here, so why bother?”, he’d answer himself, bursting in loud laughter, smacking the counter, spilling ale. “This is a house”, Mr. Ripley would quip. Indeed.
During the wintertime in Castle Kirby – which spread, when ungentle, well into May – there wasn’t much to do. A mere choice between sole or shared melancholy. There were those who’d rather enjoy it alone, by the fire; they were usually the ones to get something done and, eventually, moved out of town to larger cities. And then there were those who chose the outmoded ritual of communion. And those had a house.
One fine evening of March, crispy and white, the house was nearly empty. It carried a morose atmosphere as the night crept on. Mr. Ripley mumbled something under his breath as he cleaned the old, stained glasses. Mr. Woodham, carpenter, slept and drooled at the corner while Mr. Goode, Lord of Goode’s General Store, and Mr. Hayward, farmhand, talked old acquaintances who once had lived in Castle Kirby.
“D’ya remember that Harrington fellow? William Harrington. The one who would come here, say hello to everybody – personally! – shaking everyone’s hands, he’d have a shot of whisky and then he’d say goodbye to everyone, one by one again, and leave. D’ya remember him?”, asked Mr. Goode.
“Yes, yes, yes, I remember, surely.”
“He would not stay for a minute; did that every day.”
Both men laughed moderately and sipped their mugs.
“Odd, odd fellow”, Mr. Ripley agreed almost imperceptibly as he rubbed a glass fiercely with a suspicious, time-worn rag.
Silence reigned in.
They looked at each other, their strange faces, slightly older than they recalled, then looked at their mugs which grew emptier and emptier. They fidgeted on the counter, groped the mugs, passed their fingers through the mugs’ rims, and scratched napkins slowly. Then they accommodated their elbows and their feet, and looked about the place – drooling Mr. Woodham, empty tables, creaking doors, the dim flickering light spotlighting the old sign reading The House, dusty window sills and blurry contours and shadows appearing sporadically on the outside of them. Mr. Ripley put the rag on his shoulder and poured a considerate amount of gin into the glass he so insistently had cleansed.
“Now, d’ya remember that stout fellow, Earl something?” asked Mr. Goode.
“Earl Thorpe. I remember, surely”, answered Mr. Hayward.
“Yes, yes, indeed,” proceeded Mr. Goode, “I remember once there was a mighty ball night at Whittemore’s. They passed along to the guests some rather fancy dishes poor Earl had never seen in all his ignorance. Quite a simpleton he was, wasn’t he? Anyway, there was a certain decoration on the silver plates they were waiting on about, some resins or foam, I reckon. And this fellow Earl thought it to be food and ate everything. Aha! He ate foam, the sap!” he smacked the counter and laughed, spilling and spitting.
After a brief moment’s silence, during which both Mr. Ripley and Mr. Hayward analyzed Mr. Goode’s rude manners, they both joined him in them.
Silence reigned in again. They emptied their mugs, now. Mr. Hayward looked at the watch and knew it was time.
“Well...” he said in a long, sentimental drawl, “I must go home.”
“Yes, it is about time”, replied Mr. Goode.
“This is a house, gentlemen”, reminded Mr. Ripley.
Mr. Goode and Mr. Hayward nodded as they got up.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Ripley,” Mr. Hayward assured.
“This is a house, gentlemen. Good-night,” uttered Mr. Ripley as they walked away already. “Wake up, you bowsie!” he bawled to drooling Mr. Woodham who lifted his head swiftly in a frightened jerk.
Mr. Goode and Mr. Hayward stepped outside and stopped for a while, glancing the empty, hushed street. In a manner rather sober and courteous, Mr. Goode took his hat off.
“Good-night, Mr. Hayward.”
“Good-night, Mr. Goode, my regards to Mrs. Goode”, responded Mr. Hayward in the same manner as he turned his back to Mr. Goode and followed his way back home.
A harsh wind blew suddenly, whooshing sharply and bodingly, forcing Mr. Goode to raise his coat collar. He looked across the street and saw through a window, gleamed by a yellowish light, two silhouettes, rather close, mingling with each other, as he trod his way home over snow, lingering about the grounds and days of his time.
