The Crow in the Crown

The arrival of a beautiful American woman disrupts life in an English village pub.

The Crow in the Crown

At the bar of the Crown, Percy Bailey ordered his fourth pint of Guinness. He sat, straight backed on his usual stool.

The place had been decorated with bunting and Union Jacks and a large photo of the Queen had been tacked to the panelling above the bar. Roy Orbison's voice oozed silky melancholy from the jukebox speaker.

“Maureen's gonna have the rolling pin ready for you tonight,” said Ted the landlord with a smirk as he placed the pint on the drip tray in front of Percy.

“Nah mate she's gone down London, looking after her parents. The old man's got injured in them riots down there, so I'm off the leash tonight.”

“Lock up your daughters, is it?” laughed Ted shaking his head and grinning. “It ain't them who wants locking up, it's a certain Casanova Teddy Boy I know”.

Percy gave an embarrassed chuckle, “Nope, I'm a changed man, Ted. Straight and narrow for me now. I got too much to lose. With the kids and all.”

Ted fixed his icy blue eyes on Percy. “She's give you a warning ain't she?”

Percy snorted into his Guinness. “More like an ultimatum.” he said sheepishly.

Ted gave a knowing nod. “You'll be alright, besides, when was the last time you saw a good looking bird in ‘ere?”

Percy looked around the dingy bar, “ ‘appen you've got a point there. It ain't exactly the Playboy Club is it?” He said, indicating his fellow customers with a wave of his glass. Old Wil Plumber sat in the window seat in a haze of smoke as grey as his beard, doing a newspaper crossword. Brian the farmworker played the slot machine in his dungy dungarees like his future prosperity depended on the outcome of the next spin, and Gerald and Hettie Thorpe sat glumly ignoring each other with their shandies by the fireplace.

“Talkin’ of good lookin’ birds” said Brian shoving another coin in the machine, “Have you seen that Penny Crow what's moved in Mrs Darnley's old cottage? Cor, I wouldn't mind, I'll tell ya.”

Percy checked his own reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
Still pretty sharp for a man in his forties.
Then turned to face Brian. “Bit of alright is she?” he asked.

Brian narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips lasciviously “Like a blimmin’ film star she is. In fact she's the spittin’ image of that Gina Lobrodigia, or whatever ‘er name is. Classy as fuck. Aw mate, what I wouldn't give.” He gazed into the mid-distance, lost in fantasy, then shook his head in resignation of reality. “You won't see her in here though.”

“Why's that then, Bri?” said Ted sounding a little offended.

“American ain't she. They only drink coffee and cocktails don't they?”

“How come you know so much about her then, Bri?” asked Percy, rolling a cigarette.

“I was stood behind her in the shop. She was looking through all the newspapers. Well you know Vera behind the counter didn't like that. ‘Can I ‘elp you Madam?’ she's says, all snotty like, and the woman's like ‘No thanks, I'm good’, cool as fuck. So that's got Vera's back up ‘Its a shop, not a library’ she says. You know what Vera's like.”

Percy nodded, grinning. “Oh Aye, bristly as an ‘edgehog. What did the woman say?”

“She goes to Vera, ‘I'm just looking at the horoscopes’. Then summit about the celestial currents being very bad for Capricorn today. As God is my witness, the horoscopes for fuck’s sake. Well Vera didn't know what to make of it but she says to the woman. ‘Well even Capricorns need to pay for the papers if they wanna read ‘em in this shop.’ and the woman says “Oh, no, I'm a Pisces, but I take your point, I'll pay for one of each of the papers I look at, ok? and she slaps a twenty quid on the counter.”

Old Wil tutted, “More money than sense, these Americans.” he grumbled.

“Sounds like a bit of a nutter to me,” said Percy, flicking ash from his roll-up into the big china ash tray.

“There's summit up with that one” interjected Hettie Thorpe.

“How d’you mean, Het?” asked Ted.

“No, I shouldn't say nothing,” said Hettie pulling the collar of her cardigan up around her neck.

“You will though,” said her husband Gerald wearily.

“Well,” confided Hetty in a practiced whisper, “when I was doing the flowers in the chapel, she came in and sat down in the pews and started sobbing. Not praying, just crying like, and when I asked her if she was alright she said she'd had some very bad news. Did someone die? I asks her, and you know what she said? Not yet! That's what she said, Not yet! Well I ask you — what does that mean?”

A tall, spotty lad with spiky red and black hair came into the pub. He stopped as he approached the bar and looked up at the picture of the Queen. “Bloody hell, you can't get away from her these days,” he said.

“Silver Jubilee innit?” shrugged Ted. “What have you come as young Terry?” Said Ted, “One of them spunk rockers? Look at the state of you—safety pins in your ears now?”

“It's punk not spunk you funny fucker, Ted. Actually, I just come in to warn you, there's a seriously pissed American woman who's just been chucked out of the Black Horse and she's heading down ‘ere.”

“Same in the war” said old Wil. “They can't hold their drink, the yanks”.

“Oh here she comes,” said Terry pointing out of the window at a long haired brunette staggering across the car park shouting into the night “Hang on, Jesse! He's coming!” She almost fell through the door, regained her balance and focus and pointed up at the queen announcing “I’ll drink to that!”

Percy noticed her curvaceous figure first, then her finely structured cheek bones through the curls of thick shiny raven black hair. Her eyes were latin fire. Oh no no no. He turned back to his pint. too much to lose.

Ted put in his official landlord's voice, “I'll serve you one drink to toast her majesty, but after that I think it would be best if you get yourself home, alright Love? You've had enough for tonight, ok?”

“Whatever you say Mr Landlord,” she said with an uncoordinated salute. “I’ll get a peach brandy”.
She noticed Percy smiling at her despite himself “Hey mister—” she said, climbing unsteadily onto the next stool.”You remind me of somebody. Yeah, you do, with your pompadour hair and your sideburns, ya big hunk of love,” She punched him playfully on the arm. Her speech was loud and slurred. “Your’e gonna take me home, I'm lonesome tonight.”

Percy shook his head. “You don't know what's gonna happen,” he said.

“Oh but I do! I always do. That's my curse,” she tapped her temple. Foresight is a terrible thing. You have to watch everything coming.”
For a moment her dark eyes dimmed with sorrow.

Ted poured her a drink “Long live the Queen!” He said, holding up his pint.

“It's a fascist regime” intoned Terry the punk joining the toast.

The woman looked confused, raised her glass and huskily chanted “To the death of a king, and the end of an era!” She spilled most of her peach brandy as she fell against Percy’s solid frame.

“I think you'd better get her home, Perce,” said Ted. “God knows where she'll end up otherwise.”

Percy sighed and necked his Guinness. “Come on Love, I'll walk you home.”


Her radio alarm woke him the next morning, as he came to consciousness a newscaster reported the sad passing of Elvis Presley. The woman lay naked, sleeping face down beside him. In the small of her back a small faded tattoo he hadn't paid much attention to the night before. He leaned over her to get a closer look. Its lines had softened with age, it was a clock face, pieces of its shattered crystal scattering out in all directions with a scroll beneath that read “8/16/1977”

Shit, that was yesterday. Was that end of my era?