The Rose

George closed the door to the upstairs rooms for the last time and walked through to the bar. The long walnut counter gleamed as always, the lingering smell of beeswax polish in the air; everything neat and tidy waiting for opening time. No opening today though, just a handing over to the new owners.

George lowered himself slowly into one of the chairs and rubbed his hand along the arm. Old, but well made these chairs; they had seen a thing or two over the last forty years, a bit like him really, only these days he just felt old.

He closed his eyes and let the ghosts join him in the last moments of the old pub’s existence. There had been a public house on this site since the late 1600s. Originally a coaching inn, stories were still told of flamboyant highway men resting there after an audacious hold up. Legend insisted that both Claude Duval and Dick Turpin had supped at The Rose in their time, but George suspected that legend put them at every old house going. It made for good tales though.

The Rose had come into George’s family in the 1850’s, his Great Granddad having taken over the building and then it had passed to each following generation until now. George and his Margie had been so happy together for all of their fifty-eight years of marriage, but God had not seen fit to give them children and whilst that had been hard to accept, they had quietly got on with living. Now Margie was gone, God bless her, and it was time for new blood.

New blood and new ways. The buyers were very enthusiastic and had been in and out poring over plans and measuring for space. Seemed to George most of the place was to be ripped out with all the old wooden chairs and tables replaced with sofas and coffee machines. Fancy, Italian sounding food would be served instead of the traditional meat pies and hotpots that George and Margie had made. Ah well, that was what folk wanted these days, he supposed. He was sad that the name was being changed though, that had been a constant since the very beginning. A local landmark for three centuries; everyone knew it.

They were very pleasant though, the new lot. They had listened with interest as George told them stories of the old days and the clientele that had made the place so popular. There was Arthur Mulligan, a hard working quiet man who had never married. He came in every night at seven o’clock for a pint and a game of dominoes, enjoying the company for a few hours.

Old Stan Lipwell who always sat in the far corner, enjoying a pint followed by a pipe and his paper. The national smoking ban had generated a real battle of wills but eventually they agreed that Stan could have his pipe as long as he didn’t light it. George smiled as he remembered the old man sucking away contentedly on the empty bulb as he took in the days news.

It was the sort of pub that a man could bring his wife and family to. Margie made sure bad language and unruliness would not be tolerated. She was a tough girl, but soft-hearted. George knew full well that she never charged Sam Gaines for his supper after his home had gone up in flames. That was a bad do, he lost his wife and children that night, impossible for a man to ever recover from but the little community wrapped itself around him, helping him to get back on his feet again.

George had watched young men come in with their fathers for their first legal pint, seen them grow and become fathers themselves. Considering they were in the centre of town, there was a real village feel in this place and George was sorry he couldn’t manage anymore. No-one blamed him; they understood that without Margie by his side his heart wasn’t in running the business. He had found a nice retirement home not too far away from good fishing and that’s how he intended to spend the rest of this days.

The door opened and George stood to greet and exchange a handshake with Jaspar Haines, the new owner.

“All ready for the off George?” Jaspar asked.

George nodded. “Reckon so.”

“George, we wondered if you would be kind enough to come back when we re-open? We would be so delighted if you would be here and cut the ribbon for us.”

“Well, I don’t know. Wouldn’t you rather have someone younger and, er, better known?” George said.

Jaspar smiled. “Who could be better known round here than you George? This building has been in your family for over a hundred and sixty years; please, it would mean so much to me.”

“Well then, how can I refuse. What have you decided to call it?”

“Oh, we tried out what felt like a few hundred suggestions but in the end, everyone agreed, there was only one name for our new venture. It’s been successful for three hundred and fifty years, let’s hope the luck remains to take us through the next period eh?”

“You mean you’re not changing it after all?” George asked.

“That’s right George. It always has been and, whilst I have a say, will remain The Rose.”

George smiled as he handed the keys to the younger man, pleased that his beloved Rose would continue to bloom.