sufficient funds for him to set up a shelter for retired ladies of the night who had been ruined by love in its many guises.
The chaplain continued writing until lunchtime, when he rose to the surface again, distracted from his forbidden romances by a sudden gust of loneliness. As he thought of the woman who had reduced him to a cursed victim of insomnia, he gazed down out of the window hoping to see her. But all he saw was the first of the day’s tourists, one of whom had just made the instantly regrettable error of trying to pet an odious raven. His mind filled with the chaste thoughts that permeated his own romantic fantasies, and he wondered whether she could ever think of him as a husband. The ambulance had already collected the sightseer by the time Rev. Septimus Drew, lost in the devastation of love, came round from his reverie. He slid open the desk drawer, put away his pad, and got up to prepare himself for an afternoon of ministry with the retired pedlars of love whose shattered souls he sheltered. He left the house holding an umbrella in one hand and a treacle cake in the other, having long ago recognised its pagan ability to comfort.
THE RAIN HAD BEEN DRIVING against the door of the Rack & Ruin with such ferocity that it started to seep underneath it, spreading like a pool of blood across the worn flagstones. Notthat Ruby Dore noticed. The landlady, who had been alone since the lunchtime drinkers finally left, was looking into the cage at the end of the bar trying to coax her canary to sing. The bird was suffering from chronic agoraphobia brought on by its dramatic fainting fit into the slops tray. Despite her previous attempts, which had started with cajoling, progressed to bribes, and ended in threats, nothing could induce from it even the most humble of melodies. Much to Ruby Dore’s consternation, the bird was also suffering from what gut professors euphemistically called “the trots.” They had been brought on by the feast of dainties fed to it by a succession of Beefeaters to encourage it to sing, in the hope of securing a free pint. Paper napkins had been unwrapped on the bar containing crust from a steak and ale pie, leftover Christmas pudding discovered at the back of the fridge, and the remains of a Cornish pasty. But the only sound that came from its cage was an intermittent quiver of yellow tail feathers followed by an unladylike splat.
Plump lips close to the bars and her cinnamon-coloured ponytail running down her back, Ruby Dore whistled a final salvo of random notes assembled in an order that no one of musical persuasion would ever choose. But the bird remained mute. In an effort to distract herself from her failure, she set about dusting the cabinets of Beefeater souvenirs mounted on the tavern’s walls. The collection had been started by her father, the previous landlord, who had retired with his second wife to Spain, suffering from a surfeit of bearded conversation. The cabinets contained hundreds of Beefeater figurines, ashtrays, glasses, mugs, thimbles, and bells—anything on whichcould be stamped the famous image of a hirsute gentleman in crimson state dress, complete with rosettes on his shoes and the sides of his knees.
The Rack & Ruin had been her only home since the day she emerged from her mother, slipped through her father’s tremulous fingers, and slithered headfirst onto the kitchen linoleum in the family’s quarters upstairs. The night Ruby Dore was due to make her entrance into the world, the Tower doctor was in the bar below, having long given in to the addiction that was to be his life’s torment. When he was politely informed that the landlord’s wife’s contractions had started, he waved away the messenger. “She’s got plenty of time,” he insisted. He then turned back to the game of Monopoly he was playing with a Beefeater that had already lasted more than two hours. The man was the only Tower resident whom the doctor hadn’t beaten, simply because the pair
The chaplain continued writing until lunchtime, when he rose to the surface again, distracted from his forbidden romances by a sudden gust of loneliness. As he thought of the woman who had reduced him to a cursed victim of insomnia, he gazed down out of the window hoping to see her. But all he saw was the first of the day’s tourists, one of whom had just made the instantly regrettable error of trying to pet an odious raven. His mind filled with the chaste thoughts that permeated his own romantic fantasies, and he wondered whether she could ever think of him as a husband. The ambulance had already collected the sightseer by the time Rev. Septimus Drew, lost in the devastation of love, came round from his reverie. He slid open the desk drawer, put away his pad, and got up to prepare himself for an afternoon of ministry with the retired pedlars of love whose shattered souls he sheltered. He left the house holding an umbrella in one hand and a treacle cake in the other, having long ago recognised its pagan ability to comfort.
THE RAIN HAD BEEN DRIVING against the door of the Rack & Ruin with such ferocity that it started to seep underneath it, spreading like a pool of blood across the worn flagstones. Notthat Ruby Dore noticed. The landlady, who had been alone since the lunchtime drinkers finally left, was looking into the cage at the end of the bar trying to coax her canary to sing. The bird was suffering from chronic agoraphobia brought on by its dramatic fainting fit into the slops tray. Despite her previous attempts, which had started with cajoling, progressed to bribes, and ended in threats, nothing could induce from it even the most humble of melodies. Much to Ruby Dore’s consternation, the bird was also suffering from what gut professors euphemistically called “the trots.” They had been brought on by the feast of dainties fed to it by a succession of Beefeaters to encourage it to sing, in the hope of securing a free pint. Paper napkins had been unwrapped on the bar containing crust from a steak and ale pie, leftover Christmas pudding discovered at the back of the fridge, and the remains of a Cornish pasty. But the only sound that came from its cage was an intermittent quiver of yellow tail feathers followed by an unladylike splat.
Plump lips close to the bars and her cinnamon-coloured ponytail running down her back, Ruby Dore whistled a final salvo of random notes assembled in an order that no one of musical persuasion would ever choose. But the bird remained mute. In an effort to distract herself from her failure, she set about dusting the cabinets of Beefeater souvenirs mounted on the tavern’s walls. The collection had been started by her father, the previous landlord, who had retired with his second wife to Spain, suffering from a surfeit of bearded conversation. The cabinets contained hundreds of Beefeater figurines, ashtrays, glasses, mugs, thimbles, and bells—anything on whichcould be stamped the famous image of a hirsute gentleman in crimson state dress, complete with rosettes on his shoes and the sides of his knees.
The Rack & Ruin had been her only home since the day she emerged from her mother, slipped through her father’s tremulous fingers, and slithered headfirst onto the kitchen linoleum in the family’s quarters upstairs. The night Ruby Dore was due to make her entrance into the world, the Tower doctor was in the bar below, having long given in to the addiction that was to be his life’s torment. When he was politely informed that the landlord’s wife’s contractions had started, he waved away the messenger. “She’s got plenty of time,” he insisted. He then turned back to the game of Monopoly he was playing with a Beefeater that had already lasted more than two hours. The man was the only Tower resident whom the doctor hadn’t beaten, simply because the pair
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