by Darren Payne.
If you go down to the Windwhistle of a Friday evening, you’ll see him there, always at the same table to the right of the fireplace, with his back to the big picture of King George V that hangs on the wall. He’s always alone.
You might find once in a while somebody will stop by to say hello and enquire as to his health, but generally he sits there alone, George does, with his pint of Tetley’s set before him on the table. He only ever has one. It’ll last him all night.
But, here’s what’s curious about old George. Set there on the other side of the table is a glass of Cabernet.
If you ask him who it’s for, he won’t tell. He’ll order it up from the bar along with his Tetley’s. Then he’ll saunter on over, place the Tetley’s and the wine on the table, pull out the chair at an angle and then slide it back in again as if there’s a lady-friend and he’s helping her sit down.
Old Joe, the landlord, hasn’t a clue. He said he used to ask George about the wine, but gave up in the end. George would just look at him blankly, take his drinks and head off into his corner. After the ritual with the chair, he slides in behind the table and plops himself down onto the faded oak bench. He rubs his hands together as if washing them and then takes a long swig from his pint.
What’s that you say? Anybody know who the wine is for? Not a soul. At least none that I’ve talked to and that’s everybody in the village and for several miles around. Nobody knows. Old Joe said he doesn’t care either. George can buy wine for whomever he wants, whether they exist or not.
But I’ll tell you something now that’ll stand your neck-hairs on end. By the time old Joe rings that bell come eleven o’clock of an evening, that wine glass is empty.
Yes, empty, I say. Don’t believe me do you?
Drinks it himself you say? Well, that’s as maybe, but nobody has seen him do it. Not even old Joe. He gets asked all the time too, but Joe swears up and down that he’s never seen him touch that glass from the moment he puts it on the table to the moment he walks out the door.
Once last year, a young lass from over Sydling way-Gillian I think her name is-came into the Windwhistle. Wild young thing she is. Well, she’d heard about George and the mysterious glass of wine. She went right on over, sat down opposite George and took a swig from the wine glass. There was a gale outside that night. Bitter cold it was, and Joe had stacked up a nice blaze in the fireplace so as would warm the blood of a judge. Well, Gillian lifted that glass and took a swig. Then her giggling stopped. She went white as a sheet and started shivering and quaking like she was out in the gale naked. Joe and I helped her out of that chair, but it took all the hot tea, blankets and a chair by the fire to get her warmed up again.
George just sat there. He didn’t utter a word, but calmly walked up to the bar and ordered another Cabernet.