TT 20 - The Furthest Limit of the Village

Tendringhoe station is at the furthest limit of the village. There are other limits, of course. To the south there is the quayside; then east of the quay there is a more gradual petering out from road, to lane to footpath and out along the estuary towards the sea. To the north the houses thin out gently along the main road into Saxeburgh until the final farm is passed. The Station, however, is at the furthest limit. Unlike the estuary path in the opposite direction, it does not give way to an attractive and expansive vista. A thicket of shrubs and stunted trees conceal the empty marshland beyond. Only the experienced eye can pick out the start of a narrow footpath that winds through trouser-whipping saxifrage between the green smelling river and the railway tracks. Nor does station exit greet the incomer with polite facades. It lies behind a row of small, dark, Victorian railway cottages, the sort that have washing perenially strung out in their rectangular back gardens. So it is left to the frosted front door of the Railway Tavern, set at an angle into the corner building, to glint at passers-by like a prominent tooth in a rather louche and crooked smile.

Beyond the front door of The Railway, the two sides of the L-shaped interior recede obliquely. Len Magma is seated slightly to the left of the projecting corner of the bar beneath a glittering canopy of trinkets and tankards, the racing section of the Daily Sport opened before him. He is one of half a dozen regulars drinking in the The Railway this Saturday lunchtime. Although they periodically engage in conversation with each other they do not sit together, but are dotted around the otherwise empty pub, either at the bar or at one of the small wooden tables that flank the walls. At present, they gaze silently at the racing on the small TV screen in the corner, or hunch over their papers, or simply stare absently at the British Railways and Elvis memorabilia that surrounds them.

"What's the name of that actor?" Ginger Roger, Len's best friend and principal driver for Bob's Luxury Tours, says from his side of the bar. Since this is such a pointless question, there is no reply. "Played the Butler...what's that film?"
"The Admirable Crichton." Says Tony Styles, editor, reporter and photographer for the Tendringhoe and Chasmundham News, without taking his eyes from the television screen.
"No." Roger plucks at his bottom lip. "American film. He was the Butler for this posh English bloke, played by, oh, what was his name? You know. British Comic. Pint-sized sex-symbol."
"Ronnie Corbett." Offers Len.
"Was in a double act, with that tall, good-looking fella."
"Ronnie Corbett." Says Len again, thinking that maybe Roger didn't hear the first time.
"No - not bloody Ronnie Corbett!" Dismisses Roger. "Went to Hollywood. Was in that film with that actress. What's her name?"
"Another one in there, Len?" Uri has returned from the back room where he has been phoning in bets for his customers. Len releases his tankard for a refill.
"You know." Roger presses on. "Bloody Gorgeous. Had all them little plaits."

"Bo Diddley." This comes from old Reg sitting at his usual bench beneath the Elvis mirror. .
"Bo Diddly! That's the One!" Somehow, the two men's submerged brains are able to comminicate through the alcoholic murk like a pair of whales. Roger swivels on his stool. "What was that film, Reg?"
"9 1/2!" Says Reg knowledgeably.
"Bo Diddly - 9 1/2!" Roger turns back to the bar . "He was in 9 1/2. With Bo Diddly. Little fella. Died. COME ON, COME ON. YE-ESSS. C'MAHN RISING STAAR!" His attention is momentarily distracted by the sudden acceleration of his horse in the 3.30 at Goodwood. There is an agonising moment as three horses all seem to be neck and neck, with Rising Star perhaps just a nose ahead. Roger levitates a few inches above the bar stool in anticipation, then it's round the final bend, the camera angle changes, and within seconds the front runners have splayed out and Rising Star has comes in an entirely useless third. Roger, no-longer supended in the air by the thought of a 12-1 win on a fiver, drops back onto his stool with a disappointed sigh. Outside it has started to rain heavily.

"Dudley More." Says Reg, after a short pause.
"Dudley More! That's the fella! Dudley More."
"What about him." Asks Tony the journalist.
"What was that film?"
"Arthur?"
"ARTHUR!" Suddenly he is making such good progress the disappointment of the race is almost forgotten. "Now..." He draws a breath - he is on the home-straight. He turns to Tony. "Who was the actor that played the Butler."
Before Tony can answer the door opens and an attractive, fair-haired girl comes into the bar. There is a moment of suspension, as subtle yet significant as a change in atmospheric pressure. She is seen but not directly acknowledged. Having no status in the pub hierarchy whatsoever, any frisson that her entrance into the Railway Tavern has caused needs only be re-routed amongst the men themselves in a series of small, knowing, 'aye-aye' looks.

"What would you like?" Uri says, politely but with no social interest.
"Diet Coke, please." She is already fiddling with the change in her purse. She casts a look around the bar. "Oh, hello Len." She says, and because she feels intimidated by the alien, male atmosphere, adds, quite possibly for the first time, "How are you?"
"Sian." Len Magma says with a nod of acknowledgement but it is not the usual obsequious response she recieves from him in the vicarage. She returns her attention to her pound coins. Uri sets a can of coke on the bar alongside a glass. She pays and goes and sits at an empty table in the corner by the dart board. She looks anxiously now and again through the window at the station forecourt and fusses obsessively over her mobile phone.

The air pressure in the bar returns to normal.
"Sir John Gielgud." Tony folds up his newspaper.
"SIR JOHN GIELGUD." Roger slaps the bar.
"What about him?"
"Best actor this country's ever produced."
"Is he bollocks!" Tony feels the door swing open behind him. He turns and sees the girl run out into the rain, her jacket over her head, and climb into a waiting taxi.