THE ROEBUCK

I went walking today, along the river. This time, instead of heading east into town, I went west - out into the country. The dappled shade fell along the tow path and the pleasant river ambled by. My feet crunched the gravel and my juice sloshed in its bottle in my rucksack.

Before long I came to a rusty old pub sign: The Roebuck. It swung in the breeze, set back a little from the rippling river. There was a tree stump underneath, into which someone had hammered some nails, and next to the stump was a small abandoned metal barbecue set. A fresh-looking empty beer can rolled about on the floor, telling a story all of its own.

It looked... familiar, all that. I sat down and closed my eyes. A train thundered by, perhaps in my imagination, perhaps on the tracks behind the railings, rattling me through the years as though every carriage might have been a different memory. Chatter, natter, catter, clatter, batter-splat and more; shatter goes the matter... into 1994...

“Ooh, go on Stubbsy,” says Sarah sipping a bottle of Hooch. It’s an alcopop, sticky and sweet, and it smells of lemons. Chris laughs and throws a pebble into the water. The stone plops and ripples as he turns his back.

“I wanna see what you’re like when you’re hammered,” she smiles flirtatiously. I’m too young and too naive still to calculate her real agenda, but I do know my resolve, and I do know God. I smile.

“Not gonna happen,” I say, shifting my gaze. Chris picks up another stone and twirls it in his hand.

“Aw you’re no fun,” she giggles. She places the bottle next to the tree stump and fishes out her cigarettes from a pocket. Chris skims the stone across the flat river water. It bounces twice, then disappears. It makes me think of trajectories and maths - and all the other things the three of us should probably be revising. I contemplate saying that, but then I think again.

For some reason (and maybe it’s one that causes me a little twinge of guilt I don’t understand yet) we’re sitting, the three of us, at the bottom steps of The Roebuck, by the river, convinced by Sarah to try what she calls ‘living a little’ instead of being ‘boffins’ who ‘spend all your time in the (expletive) library.’

Chris was a Seventh Day Adventist. I was a determined Christian; she wasn’t going to succeed in getting either of us to get “rat-faced”, but she sure was spunky enough to try - and this would not be the last time.

I liked Sarah a lot - she was fiery and funny, like a ball of energy who took hold of life and knew the power of the moment. That tendency made her ever so slightly dangerous yet exhilarating to be around, and a part of me has always loved that trait. She was fun. And Chris and I, though both studious and both religious - we probably need a bit more fun than we realise.

A train rattles behind us. Sarah puffs white cigarette smoke into the air while I turn to count the carriages. They spin past, a flashing jumble of windows and wheels, shattering and scattering the light at a speed that must be faster than my sixteen year old eyes can flicker. The trees bend in its wake as though caught by the breeze and then, just as suddenly as the train of memories arrived, those trees spring right back, and return me to the green leafy silence of a summery day. My eyes flick open.

I picked up my rucksack and swung it on to my back. The pub’s gone now, even though the rusty sign and the tree stump remain. The building, just the other side of the clattering metal bridge that spans the railway line, is now a block of flats, still named The Roebuck, presumably for posterity, or after the bus stop that bears the name. They’ve done an okay conversion; they even built a new building next to it in the same architectural style. But there would be no trio of nervous school kids going in to that ropey, smoky bar, ordering a bottle of Hooch and two packets of crisps.

Funny how time goes. I took a sip of juice from my bottle, smiled, and then began the walk home.