fraser

Nunney has a castle which, for some reason, fails to dominate the attention of any passer by. Nestled between said castle and an over-topiaried churchyard once stood a tavern. I use the word tavern rather deliberately; the patron’s slick use of ‘pub’ only worked from his own tongue. It was dank, low-ceilinged yet still decadent. Somehow, this became my sanctuary.

Once per fortnight, my grandfather and I would pack away our identities (those of embittered, recently turned enemies) and we would drive the twenty minutes of twisted lanes to this tavern. The day in question was no different: we sat, side by side, as we coursed through the Somerset country in curt silence. I slammed the car door petulantly as we parked, squinting to see through rays of sun that somehow made it through the castle’s pointless arrow-slits. I could feel my grandfather’s gaze boring through my inch-thick thighs but he hadn’t the gumption to make a comment. Of course I had not yet eaten today.

At the door, we left our histories on the grisled black mat. A bell rang, summoning the attention, but not the presence, of the patron. Fraser was a disturbing man, practically the sole member of staff that we would see. His skin a translucent grey denoting sickness, eyebrows slanted in permanent disapproval and voice deep with a Scottish lilt. He wouldn’t move from behind the heavy bar, looking down instead at the reservation book lit by a gas lamp. It would not have surprised me if those pages were made from animal skin parchment. Checking it was a habit. Of course we were there, but he seemed to like tracing his calloused finger down the page to find our names regardless.

He led us to a table in a private room, running us through its history for the umpteenth time. The history itself was no doubt fiction but it fit with the narrative of messy noise this man liked to live within. He used the wooden menus to gesture to a mediaeval mural unlit on the back wall. “It’s crucial that light does not reach this. Conservation is key when it comes to relics…” Each sentence failed to properly end; it often felt like he would reach a point and then decide we weren’t really worth his explanations. After several false starts at conversation, he would leave us to ‘settle in’.

Each visit, I would purposefully disrespect the patron. I was acutely aware that he rewrote the entire menu each week, with absolute attention to detail, trend and season. My obsession with food meant I was, of course, entirely informed on the inclination towards tart apple in starters. I was no stranger to the asparagus that’s so fresh at this time of year. Each fortnight I would place down my menu, assertively provocative, and order the caesar salad. Dressing on the side. Fraser wouldn’t even write down my order. His reaction paralleled grief. She can’t decimate my expertise in this way (denial)? How dare she (anger)? Would Miss accept just a slither less of the dressing (bargaining)? Why do I bother sharing my gift to a world so ungrateful (depression)? Finally, he would slink back to the kitchen (acceptance) whilst I bore the brunt of Grandfather’s glare.

This evening, again, was no different. I had worked very hard this week to curate my ever diminishing diet, and would probably barely touch the dressing today. I looked the publican directly in the eye on his return and placed my order with no regrets.

We had already accepted, however, his choice of wine. As we consulted his taste, you could see the satisfying scratch we had given his ego. Five straight minutes he had spoken, five minutes of barely audible sommelier babble which comfortably filled the silence between two with so much to say. Fraser, in the end, was the one to settle, despite pointed comments set up as inaccessible questions. And he had returned with a bottle coated in dust. It’s odd how the British see signs of taste and wealth in dilapidation. He blew the dust towards a musty window, pouring a glass for my grandfather to taste. I knew he had no understanding of wine, so watching his act always filled me with a bit of joy. It’s amusing to watch someone else belittled.

Then, the magic window opened. The moment wine touches our tongues, they become untied, spreading open an evening’s truce. Grandfather forgets, briefly, how irate my self-imposed torture makes him. I, in turn, let go of the immense reins of anorexia. We soften around the edges, falling into a more comfortable rhythm of observational chatter and recollection of memories. Bread arrives, warm and salted, and I don’t hesitate to tear a corner. Just a corner, but it’s a casual aside that would usually never happen. By the time I sat behind the salad, I was a different person entirely. I was a frequenter of restaurants, noticing the succulence of the chicken breast and how it complemented the salt of the pancetta. I revelled in how carefully each crouton had been doused in, no doubt homemade, olive oil. I dipped each leaf into the dressing, and even I could not deny that the publican had created something of wonder there…

We left as dusk was settling around the stuffy village. Fraser watched us from his same spot at the bar, and I wondered fleetingly whether he knew the significance of this outing. The outside now felt too small, tight around me, imposing somehow. The pithy candles in windows and bunting on gutters seemed insincere and I just wanted to be home. So we both paused, resuming our familiarly toxic roles and clicking back into an awkward dance that we now called life.