Old Kent

The Old Kent Brewery stood dark and resolute on the other side of the road. The ghostly name indelibly etched in the masonry of the archway. I took a deep breath and patted the breast pocket of my old faithful jacket. I picked absently at yet another loose thread. I teased it a little, rolling the split ends between my thumb and forefinger in a quiet bid to heal the garment’s weave.

Standing at the kerbside I fixed my gaze upon those ghostly characters bringing them to the fore of my mind’s eye. Calmly I waited for the trundle of traffic to dwindle. I looked both ways and measured my step across the emptied lanes of tarmac.

Safe I said to myself as I trod the cracked and uneven paving outside the Brewery and, without missing a beat, through the archaic portal I strode, back into history.

The solid grimy building squeezed the space out of the air like a black hole. Or an amber hole. Because let’s face it, I surmised, those who partake of the amber end up collapsing in on themselves dragging down family and friends. Notions of gravity and impact seemed apt. I waved an impatient hand in my mind to disperse these thoughts. I had more pressing things.

A score of paces into the gateway the sound was muffled; the light filtered. The closeness of the air, even though chilled, brought beads of sweat to my skin. Time was confused as indicated by the hands on the old brewery clock pinnioned above the laneway on oxidated yet ornate steel girders. Both hands raised in defeat. Midday or midnight, either way time had stopped and given up. At the beginning or at the end? A strange sound in there. The ectoplasmic echo of the last second? The click of the very first cog? The start of a howl of the end of an era? Hard to say really. Could have been a bus or a bicycle bell.

Ahead, an opening in the beshadowed wall to my left announced the Office. I strimmed my stride surveying the sullied sign. How old, I wondered, is this structure? Say a hundred years. I peered into the letters to analyse their DNA. Don’t be silly, letters don’t have DNA. DNA are letters. Well, I reckoned, the sign has remained unchanged. Possibly in its original state, defiantly wearing its age.

Mounting two footworn granite steps, I turned a wobbly brassen knob, edged back the heavy wooden door and, with nary a flutter, I entered.

Immediately I recognised the creased face of the woman behind the counter. She has always been here this woman. Name of Gray. Always Mrs Gray. Like others here they are growths of the building. Like fungi on a fallen tree.

Noiselessly, I came to a halt before the handworn wooden barrier. I placed a set of spread fingers on the boards momentarily struck by the intricacy of the grain.

- Good morning, I greeted her. I’d like to speak with Mr Durham please.

Mrs Gray continued with her task of writing on a piece of paper. A hand slowly rose to indicate that, at least, my presence had been acknowledged. Steadfastly she maintained her concentration on her administrative task. Her hand hovered above the paper, pen poised to strike, like a poisonous serpent.

Patiently, I waited trying to recall the colour of her eyes. Probably grey. I peered into the pores of her patterned neck. She didn’t seem to have aged but never was she young. This place exuded a suspension of animation in so many ways.

Mrs Gray dotted her last i and turned her head slightly my way.

- Mr Durham is unavailable.

- I have a vital message for him.

She hmmed to elicit more information.

- From a party very interested in the wellbeing of the Brewery.

She gave me a quick glance and I felt her trying to scan my soul. I flattened a smile, nay a smirk it would have been had it got out.

- Who shall I say is calling?

- Mr Smith.

- Mr Smith, eh? Just a moment. Gently sighing, she pressed a combination of buttons on her telephone console.

- Yeah-ess, a tiny voice enquired.

- Can you come here? She removed her finger and forced those facial crags into a smile; possibly a smile.

Moments later another woman entered through the door behind Mrs Gray. A thinner figure, just as grey; so thin and grey as to be nearing translucence. I recognised her: Mrs Barry. She too was just as much a part of the brewery; toadstool on deadwood.

- Gentleman to see Mr Durham.

- I’m afraid Mr Durham’s….

- I have a vital message for him.

The two looked at each other with wide eyes. I marvelled at the silent volume of words that flew between them in the space of just one split second. Mrs Barry then stepped back through the door.

- Won’t be a moment, said Mrs Gray offering another of her craggy remnant smiles. She returned to busying herself with another piece of paper.

To bide my time, I turned to take in the office. An old wood framed clock with roman numerals was tocking on the wall behind me. The big hand shuddered forward each second. Kent Brewery was curved about its centre. O yes, you can change the sign but you can’t take the soul. You can change a name but you can’t change history.

On another wall hung a grainy photograph of workers in the roadway outside. Clad in their dungarees, posing in front of a row of kegs and a couple of cart horses. Are they still here? Of course they are. Just outside. They’ll always be here even if they knocked this old place down and built a tower block. Was I there? In that photo? No. Well before my time. My dad? Before his time too.

Through the door came Mrs Barry and the neatly dressed Mr Durham, the annoyance clear on his face. Perfunctorily he eyed me up and down. He rolled his shoulders to settle his jacket that evidently he had just put on.

- This is the gentleman.

- How can I help?

- Mr Durham, sir. Good to see you again.

- Again?

- I used to work here. Smith. So too did my father.

- Sorry. We have had a great number of employees over the years. Many with your name.

- Yes, of course.

- Mrs Barry tells me you have a vital message.

- I have.

- Well?

- Many happy returns Mr Durham

- I… how did you…? He turned quickly to the ladies who both shrugged their shoulders and shook their heads.

- I remember birthdays.

- I see. Is that it? Is that the vital message?

- No.

I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a string pulled pouch. I loosened the string and dipped in thumb and forefinger taking a pinch. I stepped up to the counter and blew the pinch towards the by now startled Mr Durham

- It’s magic dust. You’re safe now.

The horror settled on all three faces. You could see death entering their thoughts. Now I allowed a smile. I tightened the string and returned the pouch to my pocket. I touched my forelock and bade them good day. All three wide eyed and open mouthed. I very nearly giggled.

I grasped the wobbly knob and left as I had come. The words Call the Police woman just caught my ear like the buzz of a fly. O, the Police won’t find me. They never do. And your forensics and sniffer dogs won’t find any trace of magic dust. How can they? It’s magic!