Before you read any more, if you’re expecting a story about a half woman, half fish, you’ll be disappointed. No, it’s one of those names which crop up occasionally on a hanging sign outside a ... public house. An Inn. This particular Mermaid is a little unusual. Okay, it’s in a seaside town, and it’s above the quay, but it’s a bit ... queer, in the sense of odd, or unusual. For a start, it’s been in the hands of one family for a number of generations. How many is not entirely certain. Past that, it’s small. In Public House terms, tiny. You might with difficulty squeeze twenty people in the bar, plus another five in the snug – as long as none of them are planning on actually moving (slight exaggeration, there). Anyway, I hadn’t heard of it, and I probably wouldn’t have, but I encountered an example of ‘biker prejudice’.

“Sorry, sir, but I can’t let you have a room.”

“What do you mean? I have a reservation – look!” I handed over the printout of the reservation confirmation.

“Yes, sir. I know. But the management have a policy of not permitting motorcyclists to stay.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll have a refund of my deposit, and a written record of the refusal.”

“Yes, sir. And if I may, you would find a welcome at The Mermaid.” The receptionist scribbled on a slip of paper, glanced around, and handed it over. Then added, “If necessary, my number is there should you require testimony.”

Our eyes met, hers were steady. She smiled.

“Thank you,” I smiled back. And set off to find The Mermaid. As described, it was small, but there was an arched entrance to a yard behind, where a former stables accommodated Oscar in secure comfort.

In the bar, a youngish* man nodded as I requested a room, and called, “Connie!” A young woman, perhaps late teens, with short, curly dark hair, appeared. “Show this gentleman to a guest room, please.” He turned back to me. “We have two guest rooms, both doubles. You get a small discount for single occupancy. They are, however, on the top floor, but there are facilities up there. If you wish food, you may wish to eat in the snug rather than carry your food upstairs?”

*As I got to know the family I found that Tom was, in fact, middle aged and a divorcee, but he appeared about my age of thirty-two.

“Thank you. Should I order now?”

He glanced at a clock. “Not for a half hour or so.”

“Thank you again.” I turned to the young woman. “Shall we go?”

She bobbed, and nodded. I followed her through a narrow door – I had to hold my rucksack in front of me in order to negotiate it – and up a staircase, two flights – to the second floor. There I was shown into a pleasant room, dormer window looking out over the sea. I rummaged in my wallet and found a fiver which I handed to the girl. “Thank you, Connie.”

She took the note and bobbed again. “Oh, thank you sir! But this is too much...”

I laughed. “Don’t say that! It’s a small token of appreciation.”

She hesitated before leaving. “Would there be anything else, sir?”

“Thank you, but no, not for the present, anyway.” Then she left.

Perhaps I need to explain. It happens that, while I am not exactly rich, I have enough money coming in that I don’t need paid work; at least, as long as I don’t waste money. I can occasionally afford a generous gratuity such as that with this young woman who did not take such for granted.

Some would call me a dilettante, I expect. I work for pay when needed, or voluntarily sometimes. I love to learn, particularly history and language, and when not working, I travel to pursue my interests. I happen to like riding a motorcycle, though Oscar is hardly exciting – he’s the cheapest five-hundred cc machine I could find, and performance was not the main criterion in my selection. I was particularly annoyed by the policy of the hotel which refused to honour my reservation, and I intended to make sure the company regretted it. On the other hand, I was pleased with my alternative accommodation. I duly changed out of my riding gear, armoured and weather-proofed, and dressed in casual things which were much more comfortable. I made my way downstairs – two flights – and to the snug. There was an opening in one corner to the end of the same counter as served the main bar room. I have to admit I exaggerated somewhat the size of the room. The snug would, in fact, accommodate about ten friendly people, eight in relative comfort, at two tables. I was on my own in there, though. At the counter the youngish man drew me a pint of mild ale, something which was becoming difficult to find in most pubs. I commented.

“Oh, it’s brewed on the premises, sir. We find it quite popular. Many of our customers come in here specifically because of it.”

“Please, call me Bill,” I told him.

He smiled. “I’m Tom,” he responded. “Tom Brewer.”

“How appropriate!”

“Indeed. Our family have been brewing here for about two centuries. Father to son, or occasionally, to uncle or nephew. My daughter will be the next generation, though, so perhaps the name will change.”

“I don’t think so,” Connie’s voice lilted from the other end of the counter. “Anyone who marries me will have to change his name, because I won’t. It’s a proud name, with a history.”

“Truly a family business, then.”

“Yes.” He glanced at a clock on the wall. “Would you like to get your order in now, or wait a while?”

I was looking at the menu board. “Fish pie?”

“Good choice. Chips or mash?”

“Oh!” I hesitated, but gave in. “Chips. Just a few, please.” Quite honestly the pie certainly would come with a topping of mashed potato anyway, and usually I would have settled for just that. The pie was coming with broccoli and carrots as well. “Like me to pay now?”

“I’ll run a tab if you like, Bill. As you’re staying you can pay in one lump.”

“If you don’t mind. I will pay as I go each day because I don’t know how long I’ll be here.”

“As you wish. That’s fine.”

I sat to enjoy my beer. I do like a mild ale which, as I say, is becoming hard to find. I decry the rise of the lager, threatening the very nature of British brewing. Not that I dislike a lager. On a hot day it can be refreshing and satisfying, and also goes well with a curry. But the decline in the alternatives is depressing.

“Mister Alott!” The girl’s voice from the counter got my attention; she had my meal there. “It’s difficult to get around in the bar,” she explained. “Our customers are used to collecting their meals at the counter.”

“No problem. Makes sense.” I collected the plate and cutlery and took them to the table I’d been using. I still had half of my glass of beer, and tucked into my meal with enthusiasm. It was good. Having cleared the plate thoroughly, I could not resist the apple pie and custard on offer as a dessert. The servings were generous, though, and it was a bit of a struggle to finish. As a result I decided against another pint of beer and had a tot of whisky instead.

Two more men came into the snug while I was still there, and we had an interesting conversation about the history of the town and, of course, of the pub. Traditionally, a barman – or barmaid – rang a bell five minutes before closing time and called ‘last orders!’ I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard that, but The Mermaid obviously maintained tradition.

Clang! Clang! “Last orders, everyone! Last orders please!”

Bear in mind that having bought your drink ‘for the road’, you then have ten minutes to drink it up before being ejected from the pub and the door locked. Happily, most pub regulars know better than to drink and drive. That’s particularly relevant to motorcycling, at least as far as I’m concerned. As it was, I climbed the stairs to my rented bed with a slight buzz from the alcohol. I undressed, cleaned my teeth, emptied my bladder ... fell into bed and was out like a light.

I was awake bright and early, and trotted downstairs. In the snug I found a brass bell – the sort with a button in the middle which you tap. I pinged it and the pleasant, if penetrating, chime summoned a handsome woman in an apron from the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mister Alott! I’m Brenda Brewer. Breakfast is according to your preference. Porridge or cereal, toast, or full English. That’s bacon, sausage, eggs, beans, fried bread, hash browns, black pudding, mushrooms, any combination.”

“Oh, yes please, ” I exclaimed. “I’ll pass on the black pudding today, and have hash browns rather than fried bread, if that’s okay?”

“Certainly! Would you have tea or coffee? Orange juice?”

“Coffee, please.”

“Excellent. I’ll bring your coffee through. Your breakfast will be a few minutes more.”

Really good coffee – in a cafetière, so I didn’t have to keep asking for more; it held about two mugs full – in a cup and saucer. My breakfast arrived as I was pouring a second cup. That was of the same standard as the coffee, and I enjoyed both immensely.

I finished the coffee, which probably I shouldn’t have as I’d be having more later, and went out. Exploring the town I noticed a solicitor’s office and several cafes. The harbour would probably once have been crammed with fishing boats, but today just a couple, both of which had signs offering trips and fishing. A gaggle of small sailing boats were alongside a pontoon. Further exploration revealed a small library, which was just opening. I thought about going in, but instead headed for the law office.

The receptionist was an attractive lady of early middle age, well dressed, as you’d expect, with a professional demeanour. “Good morning, sir. How may we help you?”

“William Alott,” I said. “I’m looking for some advice about the hotel. They refused to honour my reservation because I turned up on a motorcycle.”

“Just a moment, sir.” She busied herself at a computer for several minutes. “Ah, yes. Here we are. I would recommend Mister Broadbent. He’s a motorcyclist himself. However, he doesn’t have an appointment available until this afternoon. Is that a problem? Half-past two?”

“I’m not in a great rush,” I said. “I’m enjoying my visit to your town.”

She smiled at that. “It’s a friendly place ... mostly,” she said. “If you’re not at the hotel, where are you staying, if I may ask?”

“The Mermaid was suggested,” I replied, “and I’ve found it very satisfactory. Probably better than the hotel, to be honest.”

She actually laughed. “Yes, I’m sure it is. Half-past two, then?”

“Thank you. That’ll do nicely.”

I considered the Library, but before I got there saw a cafe/second hand bookshop. Spent fifteen minutes or so perusing the shelves before buying a paperback copy of ‘The Hunt for Red October’, and settled to read over another (mug this time) coffee. The place was not busy, and I sat there until mid-day. They were offering toasties, so I had one – ham and cheese – with more coffee before continuing my exploration of the town.

Mister Broadbent turned out to be a tall, slim individual with a ready smile. “Mister Alott? Come with me, please.”

I cannot claim to be familiar with the law, or law offices. Mister Broadbent, “Call me Ed,” had what I assumed to be a typical one, the walls covered with shelves of law books, and an impressive desk. He did not, however, sit behind said desk. We settled in a corner of the office in comfortable seats separated by a coffee table. “Can I offer a drink? Tea, coffee?”

I hesitated, but couldn’t resist. “Black coffee, if I may?”

“Man after my own heart.” He used an intercom to request delivery of said coffee. “I understand you’ve had an encounter with our hotel?”

“That’s right,” I proceeded to describe my experience. By the time I’d finished we were ‘Ed’ and ‘Bill’, and he was nodding.

“I have a history with the company behind that hotel,” he told me. “I’m quite happy to have the chance to challenge them, and there are several routes we could take. However, I must warn you that such civil actions are prone to difficulties, however good your claim. You could embark upon a suit, and end up paying a lot – possibly their costs as well as your own. Admittedly, that’s unlikely, but it is possible.”

“I’m willing to take a chance,” I said. “I haven’t unlimited resources, but I do have some.”

“One question, though,” Ed said, “do you have any professional qualification? You present well, respectable, not a tearaway, but some professional standing would be even better.”

“I’m a registered physiotherapist,” I told him, “but I only practice enough to maintain my licence. Much of my practice is, um, ‘pro bono’. Voluntary in hospice settings. Occasionally some agency work in hospitals.”

“Better and better! Well, I can get this under way, if you’re still determined.”

“Yes, I am.”

We shook hands and parted.

I walked briskly through the town, past the harbour, to a rather rocky beach. I peered into rock-pools, stepped over seaweed, picked up a mermaid’s purse – these are the egg cases of sharks and skates – to take back to my room. It’s possible to identify the species of creature they belong to, so I thought I’d try Google for this one.

Further along, I found a suitable boulder and sat to read, soothed by the sound of the waves on the shore and the cries of the gulls. Despite the time of year – early June – it was cool there; I retreated in good order after an hour or so to the snug in the Mermaid. Over a pint of beer, I showed my ‘prize’ to Tom. He smiled.

“Lots of those,” he said. “Looks to me like a dogfish case, I think. You can get an app to identify egg-cases, but I’ve never bothered.”

I nodded. “I’m not sure I’m bothered, either. Just curious.”

“If you go to a fish’n’chip shop and see ‘rock salmon’, it’s probably dogfish.”

“A small shark, then.”

“That’s right.”

I heard the sound of someone entering the bar and Tom turned to serve them. I paid attention to my beer and my book. But I did half-hear, “Hey, Emily!”

“Hi, Tom. Is Mister Alott here?”

“Sure. Just a second.”

He came to the counter. “Mister Alott,”

“Yes, Tom?”

“Emily Stone’s looking for you.”

“Is she pretty?” I grinned to show I was kidding.

“She’s my cousin. I think she’s quite pretty.”

“Then I might be pleased to see her.”

He turned away, and I heard him, “He’s in the snug, Em. Don’t be a pest. Anyway, what are you doing here at this time?”

“I quit. I’ve had it up to here with that lot.” The voice sounded familiar. The door opened and the young woman entered the room. Yes. I did know her – I’d last seen her behind the reception desk of the hotel which didn’t accept motorcyclists. And yes, she was pretty. A familial resemblance between her and Connie and Tom Brewer, though Tom’s hair was fading a little, the facial shape was there.

“Mister Alott!”

I stood. “Emily,” I dragged the memory of her name badge reluctantly out of storage, “call me Bill. I need to thank you for recommending this place. I hope your kindness didn’t cause your leaving the job?”

She smiled, and her face was transformed from ‘pretty’ to ‘beautiful’. “Only partly. I quit for a number of reasons, and I’m suing for constructive dismissal. As it happens I keep accounts for a number of small businesses on the side, so I’m not sorry to be shot of the hotel.”

“Were you looking for me?” I raised an eyebrow, and smiled.

She inclined her head. “Yes, I was...” her voice trailed off.

“Come and sit down. Have a drink. I was just thinking about having something to eat.”

She hesitated, but went to the counter. “Tom, lemon and lime. No. Fuck that. Pint of mild, please.”

“Right away, Em.” The laughter he was suppressing was obvious in those three words. A pint mug of beer appeared on the counter. She collected it and sat with me.

“You’re family, then?” I picked up my own drink. “Why work at that wretched hotel?”

She shrugged. “I’m a cousin. But there’s not enough work here for everyone, and The Mermaid has always been staffed by Brewers. I’m a Stone. I do the accounts for the business. I can get a meal or a drink here, even a bed if I need one, but otherwise I need to make my own way.”

“I suppose that makes sense. In a way, anyway. Connie’s the heir apparent?”

“After Tom, yes. She’s quite the brewmistress; Tom taught her. Bert ... Brenda’s husband ... died a couple of years ago. Tom’s wife ... Connie’s mother ... moved out and went to London, for God’s sake. Why would anyone want to live in the Big Smoke?”

“Not very smoky these days, but no, I wouldn’t want to live in the capital. Between congestion, pollution, and the sheer crowding? No. I’ll go sometimes for a museum or an exposition. You can’t beat the National Gallery, or the Science Museum, or the V and A. But give me the North any time.”

She looked at her watch. “Not time to order for supper, yet.” She sipped at her beer.

I finished mine, and after a moment’s thought, asked Tom for another. As he was drawing it, he said, “Tonight’s special is chicken fricassee. If you’d like that, I’ll put the order in now so you’re at the head of the list.”

I glanced at Emily, who nodded enthusiastically. “Two, then, please, Tom.”

We spent a very pleasant evening chatting over our food and more beer. Before Tom called ‘Last Orders’ Emily stood a little unsteadily. “I need to get back to my apartment. I’m planning on letting it, but it’ll take a while to organise that. In the morning I’ll need to sort out a lawyer. So I’ll say goodnight, Bill.”

“I’ll walk you home, if you like?” I was a little unsure of her ability to get there unscathed on her own. Of course, I was a little the worse for wear myself, but I had more body mass to soak up the alcohol.

She looked at me consideringly for several seconds, then nodded. “Thanks. I’d appreciate your company.”

It was, perhaps, a twenty-minute walk at her pace, which was probably slower than her usual; I tucked her hand into my elbow after a few minutes as she was weaving noticeably. When we reached her apartment block we paused at the door as she fumbled for her key card. Having found it, she looked up at me. “I’m not going to invite you in,” she said, “though I admit I’d like to. Another time, perhaps?” Then she stretched up to kiss me.

“I’ve enjoyed your company ... a lot,” I smiled. “A rain-check, then?”

“Absolutely.” Then she was gone, and I walked back to The Mermaid, rather faster than we’d moved on the way to her apartment. Tom was still up, though the door was shut. It wasn’t locked, so I just walked in.

“Hey, Bill! Was I right?” He walked over to turn the lock.

“Well ... I wouldn’t say she was pretty,” I said, slowly. “Actually, when she smiles, I’d say beautiful. We had a very pleasant evening. The food was first class, as was the beer. I thought I’d better walk her home as she seemed a little unsteady on her feet.”

He nodded. “None of us are great drinkers. Em put away probably twice what she’s used to. Thanks for looking after her.”

“It was truly a pleasure,” I said, “but now I’m for bed. Good night.”

“Goodnight.”

I slept well apart from having to deal with the beer I’d finished with in the middle of the night. In the morning, after another substantial breakfast, I went out to sort out some options. I was getting, more and more, to just like the little town, and it was giving me ideas. First port of call was the library with its wifi and tables and chairs. I wanted to look into what the options were for a physiotherapist in the town. I ended up with details for a small local hospice, and a couple of GP practices. The nearest hospital was twenty miles away.

Both GPs were very positive to have a locally placed physio on tap. Similarly the hospice, especially when I suggested I would be willing to do some work pro bono. In each case, I left CVs with references. I grabbed a sandwich in a cafe before consulting an estate agent. They came up with a small shop which had been a dentist’s, so downstairs would make an office and consulting room, with hygiene facilities. Upstairs was a rather neglected apartment on two floors: kitchen, bathroom, lounge, with a large and a small bedroom above in an attic space, with a toilet between them.

Further efforts, with suggestions from the agent, found me a local builder who would upgrade the property. More insulation. Better heating. Fibre-optic data, that sort of thing.

Lastly, a quick call on the solicitor, who was happy.

“Got them on the run,” he said. “The local manager is out, and I think you’ll be due some compensation. Probably not a lot, maybe five K.”

“Better than a kick in the teeth,” I commented.

“Indeed. There are other suits in progress,” he told me. “I wouldn’t be surprised to see the place up for sale pretty soon. Off the record, there’s a suggestion the company behind it are in trouble.”

“Good enough. In a day or so I’ll need to go home, but I gave your name to the estate agency. I’m buying a shop and apartment, hopefully to set up as a physiotherapist, private and NHS.”

“That is good news,” he told me, “I’ve been travelling twenty miles each way every few weeks for physio on my back. You’ll have at least one customer.”

The next few days, I just explored. Having set in train plans to settle in the town, I would have to go home, probably to let my flat and certainly to exit my commitments to local health care. That, I would regret. In the evenings, I spent time with delightful Emily, who seemed nothing loth to do just that.