A Pint of Beer, a Bag of Chips, and Thou

A Pint of Beer, a Bag of Chips, and Thou

By JL Merrow

Published by JMS Books LLC

Visit jms-books.com for more information.

Copyright 2015 JL Merrow

ISBN 9781611528992

Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination

and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to

actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published in the United States of America.

* * * *

Liam and Neil, please visit jlmerrow.com/free-reads/ive-got-my-

love-to-keep-me-warm/ for a short coda set a year later.

* * * *

By JL Merrow

I walked into the living room three days before Christmas

to find the coven was in full swing.

In case you’re thinking that sounds a bit weird, I should

maybe mention I was raised by witches. Three of them, which

anyone who’s read their Macbeth (or their Pratchett, for that

matter) will know is the only sensible, or even possible, number

of witches. I grew up with my Mum, my Aunty Des and Aunty

Mags, all of us living together in the little house in Camden that

used to belong to my Granny, God rest her. I’m Liam, by the

way. Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m the one solitary

male in the household, unless you count the cats. And to be

honest, they’re not as male as they used to be, poor things.

There is, in fact, a fourth sister, my Aunty Gerry. Rejected

by the coven on the cruel grounds of numerical superfluity, she

became an Anglican priest to spite them. Well, that’s how she

tells it, anyway, although I can’t say I’ve noticed a great deal of

spite in their relationships.

“I pray for their souls every night,” Aunty Gerry told me

piously one evening not so long ago, before collapsing into very

un-Reverend-like cackles and passing the gin.

You’re probably wondering exactly what I mean by

witches. Well, they don’t wear pointy hats, and I’m the only one

of the family generally seen in head-to-toe black, but don’t let

that fool you. They have a way of knowing things they’ve no

business knowing, and although we’re not rich—far from it—still,

things have a habit of turning out just the way my mum and my

aunties want them to. We had some unfriendly neighbours, once,

who seemed to think it their duty to pass judgement on how I live

my life. You wouldn’t believe the trouble they had with that

house—pipes bursting, fuses blowing, leaks in the roof, that sort

of thing. They spent a fortune fixing the place up, and eventually

sold it at a rock-bottom price to a young family who are as nice

as you could wish for. And who haven’t had a day’s trouble with

the house since they moved in.

So I learned at an early age which way was widdershins,

and why it was vital y important to leave a bowl of milk on the

doorstep at sunset. For the fairy folk, I thought for ages, but it

turned out it was just for next door’s cat all along. They were

raising it vegan, and my aunties don’t hold with that. My dad was

never much on the scene. Mum likes to refer to me as her

youthful indiscretion, but seeing as I’m twenty-three and she’s

fifty-five…Well, you do the maths. My father was, cliché of

clichés, the milkman, who popped in for a Christmas sherry and

barely escaped with his (very) young life. He’s forty-two now,

with a wife and a brand new baby, and who’d blame him for

being embarrassed about having a grown-up son? Not I.

Me? I’m a musician. Currently between gigs, which means

I spend a lot of my time on the London Underground, busking.

It’s not as bad as you’d think—it’s in the warm, and I like seeing

all the people go by. Wondering where they go to, and hopefully

cheering them up a little on their way.

There’s one man in particular I’d like to cheer up, although

not just by playing the saxophone. He wears a rumpled trench

coat like Columbo, fil ed out nicely by a pair of broad shoulders I

can just imagine laying my head on, he has iron-grey hair cut

bristly on top and his eyes are the brightest blue you’ve ever seen.

He never looks like he’s in a hurry, not like most of the people

you’l see in a Tube station…ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

“Liam, my love.” That was Aunty Des. She’s as thin as a

rail, with a sharp, pointed nose. Aunty Mags is round as a peach,

with soft curves that all but smother you when she gives you a

hug, which she does at the drop of a hat. For years, when I was

little, I used to call them Aunt Sponge and Aunt Spiker, and to

their credit, they never spanked my cheeky young arse for it.

“Where have you been? It’s nearly time for tea.”

I noticed all three of them had thrust their knitting under

cushions. There’s a wealth of cushions on our sofa, as good for

easing weary bones as they are for concealment. “Would those

be my Christmas presents, by any chance?” I asked, raising an

eyebrow. Aunty Des spent long afternoons teaching me to do

that, bless her bony self.

“And what makes you think you’re getting any presents

this Christmas?” Mum asked sharply. “Lord knows I don’t ask

much, but it’s been my fondest wish these last ten years to see

you settled with a nice young man before I shuffle off this mortal

coil, and what have you done about it?”

“Mum! I was only thirteen ten years ago! And it’s not that

easy, okay? You wouldn’t want me to settle for just anyone, now

would you? Anyhow, you’re as strong as an ox. I reckon you’ve

got another forty years at least before you start getting ready to

do any shuffling.”

Aunty Mags sniffed. “The rest of us aren’t getting any

younger, either. And it’s not right for a young man to be on his

own at Christmas time.”

“Ah, but I’m not on my own, am I?” I said, perching on the

arm of the sofa and putting my arm around her. Well, halfway

around her, at any rate. “I’ve got my three lovely ladies here.”

“None of that!” Aunty Mags giggled, but Aunty Des pursed

her lips. “Girls, it’s time for a confab. Liam—go and put the kettle

on. And mind you take your time about it.”

I swung my feet back to the fluf y carpet and stood. “I’l be

seeing you in the New Year, then,” I said as I went out to the kitchen.

I swear they’ve put some kind of spell on that kettle. There

are times you put it on and it only takes a minute to boil; and

there are other times when it seems to take all day and half of

the next. This was one of those times. When I finally returned to

the living room, a quartet of steaming mugs in my hands, they

were sitting in an expectant little row on the sofa, Aunty Mags

holding something fluffy in her lap. I knew it wasn’t one of the

cats, because it was livid purple.

All right, maybe I just hoped it wasn’t one of the cats. Like

I said, raised by witches…Witches, I might add, with a wicked

sense of humour. I put down the mugs carefully on the side table

and stood waiting to be told what was going on. It’s best not to

be carrying anything likely to make a mess if dropped, not when

my aunties are about to make a pronouncement.

“We’ve decided,” Aunty Mags said. “You’re to have your

Christmas presents early.”

You might think witches wouldn’t celebrate Christmas.

You’d be dead wrong there—no witch worth her salt would ever

pass up the opportunity to be given presents and get drunk on

sherry at ten o’clock in the morning without censure.

“Here you go, love.” Aunty Mags held out the purple thing

to me. I took it carefully, just in case it really did have claws and

teeth. “What is it?”

“It’s a hat, you numpty.” She’s a col ector of words, is my

Aunty Mags. And she’s generous with them, too. “Go on, put it on.”

“Aunty Mags! I can’t wear that. It’ll flatten the mohawk.”

“You’ll wear it and be grateful, my lad,” Mum said darkly.

Sighing heavily, I pulled on the baggy purple monstrosity

and went to look in the mirror above the fireplace. About the best

you could say for it was that the colour looked good with my pale

skin and brown eyes. It was in a coarse, scratchy wool I

reckoned I’d heard Aunty Mags call mohair, and had a shaggy

pom-pom on top. It hadn’t, actually, flattened the mohawk—just

sort of settled around it. With the height and all, it looked like

someone had put an old-fashioned cosy on a teapot and bunged

it on my head.

“There. That’ll keep you nice and warm when you’re out

busking,” Aunty Mags said.

I sent her a pleading look. “I can’t wear this out in public!

People will think I’m drunk.”

“Then you’ll be doing your bit for raising awareness of

people with a drinking problem,” Aunty Des put in, with the smug

piety of the professional heathen.

“Aunty Des,” I explained patiently. “Everyone’s
aware
of

alcoholics. But they don’t go round giving them money they

might spend on drink.”

“Then you’l just have to play twice as wel and convince them

you’re sober, now won’t you? Be of with you now, love. Shoo!”

* * * *

When I got outside and on my way to the evening rush-

hour shift, there was a steady sleet falling, which made me feel

better about the godawful hat. Sleet’s death to hairstyles, and

there’s nothing sadder than a droopy mohawk. Especially when

there’s someone you’d like to impress. I’d put my leather

trousers on special, and doubled my body weight with all the

studded gear I was wearing. I was going to take the hat off once

I got inside the station, but then I thought, ah, sod it. It’d dry

faster on my head than off.

So I hopped on the Northern Line, filled my lungs with the

heady aroma of burnt diesel, and rode down to King’s Cross,

catching a few more smiles than usual from people who glanced

up from their Kindles or their copies of the
Evening Standard
.

Seems a six foot punk is a tad less intimidating when wearing a

tea cosy on his head—who knew?

I made my way to my pitch at the bottom of the long

escalator, got out my saxophone and launched straight into

Springsteen’s “Born to Run.” Commuters like that. Everyone likes

to think they’re wild and free at heart, even if they work nine to five in an air-conditioned office with no natural light. Especially then.