Bohemia Village Voice

The Birthday Treat

Colin Noyse and his wife ambled silently down Skinner’s Lane on a misty autumn evening. Colin glanced at his watch.
“You’ll wear that watch out if you keep looking at it,” snapped Irene. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and hunched his shoulders. As they rounded a bend they saw the lights of The White Hart. They stopped to look at a poster in the window. It had a grainy black and white photograph of an elderly man with a guitar, beneath which was the legend ‘Rambling Bob Brown’.
Irene pursed her lips.
“So that’s what all the fuss is about, is it?” Something about her face reminded Colin of someone sucking a lemon. They entered the pub which was already half full. Irene found a table and Colin went to the bar.
“Quite a few in,” he said.
“Yes,” said the barmaid. Colin carried the drinks to where Irene was sitting.
“A person could die of thirst,” she said, “while you’re chatting up the floozies.”
From outside the pub came a sudden loud explosion quickly followed by another. Several people hurled themselves to the floor in terror. The door opened and Rambling Bob Brown appeared, taking a swig from a whiskey bottle. They were pleased to learn that the explosions had been caused by his old Morris Minor backfiring. Two customers went to help him in with his gear and Colin rose from his chair to assist.
“Sit down, Colin,” snapped Irene, “this is your birthday treat.” They watched as he set up his equipment pausing occasionally for a swig from the whiskey bottle. Irene drummed her fingers on the table impatiently.
“At last,” she said when he eventually took a battered guitar from its case. He started off with a Delta blues and within half an hour the pub was full of enthusiastic fans.
“How on earth is he getting home?” asked Irene, as Rambling Bob drained the last of his bottle.
“Driving, I presume,” said Colin. Bob played his last encore at twelve thirty and a few people helped him to load his car. Colin came back from the Gents to find that Irene was nowhere to be seen. He went into the night air and saw her on the other side of the carpark. As he approached she put her mobile phone into her bag.
“Who were you phoning?” he asked, emboldened by alcohol.
“The police,” she said, “he’s not fit to drive.”
“But he’s a blues singer,” explained Colin, “he’s Rambling Bob.”
A small crowd had gathered round the blues singer to get autographs. Colin was on the horns of a dilemma. Should he warn Rambling Bob? He saw him climb unsteadily into his Morris Minor, start the engine and pull slowly out onto the road. There was a collective gasp as a blue flashing light came out of the mist.
The police car blocked Rambling Bob’s way and two policemen approached him. The few remaining customers strained to hear what was being said. They saw Bob get out of his car and blow into the breathalyzer. The policemen examined it carefully, had a short discussion, then went back to their car and drove off. Bob restarted his engine and pulled away. Irene ran after the car and banged on the window. He stopped and opened the door.
“What are you doing?” she gasped, “you can’t drive after all that whiskey.”
Bob laughed. “Cold tea, lady. Just cold tea. It’s part of the act. I mean, who’s interested in a teetotal blues singer?” He shut the door and drove off, still chuckling.