Stewart Devitt was born in Belfast, worked and played there and in Dublin, donning the jerseys of Instonians and Bective Rangers rugby clubs. An experienced training professional, specialising in communication and personal development, he lived in Auckland for 15 years and is now back in Helensburgh, Scotland, where he can devote more time to writing, a lifelong hobby, and pleasure.
The Throne
By Stewart Devitt
It had been the same routine every day over the past three years, apart from Sunday, since the passing of Baldy. Exactly at 1.00pm after the last pip sounded, indicating the News was imminent, Knuckles turned the handle of his front door and ventured into the street, pulling the door behind him. Turning slightly, he nudged it with his right shoulder to ensure it was firmly closed.
Allowing himself ten minutes to cut across the waste ground, and reach the bus stop on the main road, he ensured he was in time to catch the No 22 to his destination. Safely on board he rested his head against the window knowing he had thirteen minutes to enjoy a little snooze. When he disembarked from the bus all he had to do was walk the sixty metres to his destination.
On the other side of town, as the final pip sounded, Fingers pressed the button on the second floor of the rest home, to summon the lift to take him to what was grandly called the Lobby. He allowed himself a full five minutes for this part of the journey, to take account of the fact that the lift may not instantly respond to his first touch. Once outside the building he turned left, past the small shopping precinct, and steadying himself with his blackthorn stick set off to the station to catch the 1.20pm train to Kingsway, just across the road from where he would meet his friends.
Elbows, although nearest to the meeting point, was sensible enough to allow himself plenty of time for his journey and began to get ready when his Smartwatch alarm signalled it was 12.50pm. Allowing eight minutes, he sat in the chair and pulled up his knitted woollen socks before putting on his shoes and tying the laces in a double knot. He was in the street just as the last pip faded away. With his well-worn backpack hanging lopsidedly over his shoulders he very carefully began shuffling up the road, one foot at a time. After five minutes he stopped at the chemist shop and sat down on the bench just outside the entrance. Wrestling the backpack off his shoulders he took out a water bottle and quenched his thirst, before loudly blowing his nose, much to the annoyance of anyone around him. Wiping his lips with the tattered handkerchief, embossed with his initials, he stuffed it into his trouser pocket and placed the water bottle back in the backpack. Then, with a perfect impression of a contortionist he managed to get the pack once more on his back, before finally easing himself onto his feet. Taking another couple of minutes to balance himself he recommenced his shuffle, his Smartwatch confirming to him that he was on schedule to arrive as usual at 1.20pm.
Arthur had worked behind the bar at The Harp for more years than he cared to remember and knew his customers like the back of his hand. So it was that every day, except Sunday, he was in place, at precisely 1.20 pm to push open the heavy wooden door of the pub. Ignoring the lumbago that restricted his own movements he always managed to accomplish this task just before Elbows arrived. Holding on to Arthur’s extended right arm, Elbows levered himself up the three steps leading into the main bar area before moving at a somewhat faster shuffle to take his place at the counter. Then in the space of five minutes Knuckles and Fingers were also welcomed by Arthur as they hurried to their favourite space, ready to escape from all the worries of the world.
As soon as patrons walked through the door the main counter of The Harp welcomed them. It stretched across the room for about seven metres before curving around to the left for a further metre and a half. This smaller section had originally been set aside for table service orders, a practice that had long since been discontinued. There was however room for one bar stool and the four pensioners had asserted lunchtime rights to this and three other stools at the front of the counter. This had provided adequate space for good conversation, the Racing Post, four pint glasses and four tumblers of Black Bush. Baldy, having introduced the others to the pub, had taken up residence in the corner stool with a view of both the bar and counter area, and Arthur had labelled it as his throne. His companions were assigned the three stools at the end of the counter and were limited to watching the activities behind the bar with the occasional glimpse of life elsewhere in the inn when they strained their necks to see through the mirrors running along the wall.
Elbows, by some undisclosed permutation, had now taken ownership of the throne, and no amount of persuasion by the other two would encourage him to operate on a rota basis. Arthur had convinced himself that the now routine nature of their arrival was a way of diverting any arguments as to seating arrangements.
However, today was different. Elbows had as usual shuffled his way to the bench at the chemists and, as usual, taken a drink from his water bottle. Then, as he pulled out his handkerchief, and after loudly emptying his nasal passages, he slumped sideways, his head landing sharply on the shoulders of a young mother attempting to control two wayward children.
When Knuckles was first to arrive Arthur immediately sensed a problem. Not only was he concerned about what might have happened to Elbows, he felt in his bones that there might well be an issue over the coveted seat. It took only a moment for Knuckles to realise he was first to arrive as he eyed the vacant space in front of him. Looking at Arthur, as if to get confirmation of this, he straightened his back, jutted out his chin and made ready to move forward. The prod in the back took him by surprise, as Fingers displayed a hidden strength in launching the blackthorn into the kidney area. As Knuckles gasped and stumbled sideways Fingers glided through the gap and plonked himself down on the coveted stool.
It had been quite some time since there had been a fight in the establishment, and that had been in the wee small hours of the morning, and the regulars were taken completely by surprise. Arthur no longer willing to put himself up as a peacemaker could only whimper inaudibly from the entrance as Muscles broke off a leg from an already rickety chair. Moving forward with intent he lashed out wildly at his companion, hitting him solidly just above the left wrist. Fingers, for his part, became enraged by the pain and with a round the corner swing of the blackthorn caught his friend a blow two inches above his left eye. With blood spurting onto the floor a couple of children screamed as their mothers pushed and pulled at Arthur, telling him to do something.
As he attempted to untangle himself from the women Arthur found himself lodged between the two antagonists and in a second all three were on the floor. Both Knuckles and Fingers somehow managed to struggle up onto their knees, looked at each other and then at the prostrate figure of Arthur who was quickly developing a blackish blue lump, the size of a grapefruit, in the middle of his forehead.
No one owned up to calling the police, although they arrived promptly to the chaotic scene, quickly followed by an ambulance, lights flashing to alert the lunchtime traffic. Half an hour later, after partaking in a little refreshment, the two constables left to continue their duties, stating they would file a report back at the station. Customers remaining in the bar munched complimentary sausage rolls, crisps, and cheese and chutney sandwiches as they gave new arrivals vivid and exaggerated accounts of the lunchtime excitement.
Over at the A&E unit Dr Hucker arrived to begin her shift and perused the list of patients already in the waiting area. Possible ruptured eardrum; Deep gash above the left eye – needing stitches; Possible fracture of left ulna – needing X Ray; Grade 3 concussion – checking available beds.
‘It’s feeling like a Saturday night,” she quipped to a nurse, before moving towards the coffee machine.
The Galway Review 