The bartender doesn’t flinch.
“Barkeep!” bellowed Shakespeare, “the good Italian, I say”.
Annoyed the bartender looks up and stops. Eyes on us, he slowly reaches under the counter, bringing forth a rather large, ornate jug. A big man, he waddles over to the table.
He starts to set the jug down but hesitates. “I don’t suppose you’ll be wantin’ to be puttin’ this on yer tab, will ya?”
Shakespeare frowns. He leans over to Indy, “Pay the good man”.
Indy sighs, “Do I really look like I carry coins on my person?” He turns to me and without missing a beat says, “Pay the man”.
All eyes turn to me. I instantly get that sinking feeling.
“Well…?” demands the bartender.
I lean over to Indy while gazing at the bartender out of the corner of my eyes. “I only have ones and fives” I whisper. “And I don’t think pieces of paper with George Washington and Abraham Lincoln will go far here.”
The bartender grunts “Thought so, welches” and turns to walk away.
Shakespeare lets out a laugh.
“Put that jug right down here my good fellow.” He pulls some coins out of his pocket and tosses them on the table. “Let it not be said that Shakespeare is a welch.”
The bartender sets the jug down with a thud and scoops up the coins. He scans the 4 at the table.
“I’ll not want any trouble from you lot,” shakes his head and waddles back to the bar.
Shakespeare grabs the jug. “This, my friends,” as he pours, “will explode on your palette like thousands of fluttering butterflies in the meadow of a new spring.”
Then softer “As opposed to that swill they make in the back alley.”
We raise our glasses. Good, but I am no wine connoisseur.
Roy is obviously impressed.
We have another glass.
“This is all fun guys,” I say, “but if we’re going to be in merry old England, I want to see merry old England.’
Roy motions with his hand, “Have at it.”
As I start walking away, I hear Indy whisper “Do you think it’s a good idea to let an amateur wander around?”
I don’t hear the answer.
As I approach the door, I stop.
Ting, ting, ting.
Something familiar about those notes.
Ting, ting, ting.
I look to see where the music is coming from.
In a far corner of the pub, I see a man in the shadows picking at the strings of a lute.
Ting, ting, ting.
I approach. He is a young man in his early 20’s I guess. A little out of place in this setting.
“Excuse me. What is that tune? It sounds familiar.”
He looks up.
“Really?” You have heard it before?”
“Pretty sure”
He laughs. “I sincerely doubt that as I have just finished writing it.”
“Just finished?”
“Just now.” I have been waiting for a friend of mine and it came to me.”
He plucks the strings.
Ting, ting, ting.
“I know I have heard that before.”
He ignores my last comment.
“It seems though, that he may have been delayed. Maybe you have seen him? He is well known in this area. George Herbert?”
“George Herbert? Really?”
“You know him?”
“No. But my friend over there,” I motion towards our table, “he asked the bartender about George when we came in.”
The man leans forward.
“Shakespeare? I did not know he was an acquaintance of George?”
“No, the other one”
“The little furry one?”
“No, no, no, the one with the hat.”
“Aaaa. He knows George?”
“He knows him, but not personally. I think he was hoping to meet him while we were here.”
“Hmmm.” After a pause, “Oh, where are my manners. Please, sit.”
He reaches out his hand.
“I am Thomas.”
“Bryan,” I say, as I shake his hand.
“What about your friend?” I ask as I sit.
“He does not seem to be coming. I have been here since the hour began.”
He plucks at the strings again.
Ting, ting, ting. Ting, ting, ting.
Ting, ting ta ting. Ting, ting ta ting.
“Now I definitely know that tune.”
Thomas stops. “I do not understand how you…”
“Wrong, Wrong, WRONG!” Shakespeare yells.
The entire pub turns.
“Uh-Oh”, I say, “looks like the natives are getting restless. Here, come with me. I’ll introduce you to my friends. They’ll get a kick out of this.”
“A kick?”
“Figure of speech.”
We both get up.
“You have an odd manner of speech,” he says as we head towards the trio.
“Wait ‘til you meet my friends.”
As we approach, I can see the trio has obviously enjoyed the Italian red as the jug is on its side.
“What does a dog know about lit..litra..good writing?” slurs Shakespeare angrily, as we approach.
“Ask him”, Indy retorts, pointing at Roy.
“Don’t involve me, you started this.”
They haven’t noticed us.
“Guys.” No response.
“Guys” I say louder. Shakespeare and Indy are glaring at each other.
“GUYS!”
They all turn rather slowly.
“Hate to break up your enthralling discussion, but I want you to meet someone. This is Thomas.”
Thomas steps forward and nods.
They look Thomas up and down, not impressed.
“Thomas is a friend of George Herbert.”
Roy perks up. “You don’t say.”
“Pull up a chair.” he says, pulling out the chair next to himself.
“Wait, wait, wait.” I say. “That’s not the neat part. Thomas, play that song.”
“So, you fancy yourself a writer of songs,” muses Shakespeare.
“Ignore him,” I say, go ahead, “just the first few notes.”
Thomas plucks. Ting, ting, ting. Ting, ting, ting.
I beam.
“Three Blind Mice,” says Indy, “so?”
“How…wait…?” Thomas begins.
I cut him off. “He just wrote it, just now.”
“Actually, I just finished it. But how did your dog…”
“Okay, sm..smart guy,” Roy says to Indy, “sing it for him.” He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair and smiles.
“Fine,” says Indy, a little wobbly. He clears his throat.
“Three blind mice. Three blind mice.
See how they run. See how they run.
They all ran after the farmer’s wife,
Who cut off their tails…”
“STOP!” yells Thomas. “There is no farmers wife and no cutting off of tails…”
“That’s how I remember it,” says Indy defiantly.
Roy laughs.
Thomas looks confused — then angry. Gradually, a knowing smile crosses his face.
“I see” he says. “you heard me playing across the room. That is how you know my melody. You are sly.”
Indy replies “Believe what…”
“Thomas,” Roy says, not letting him finish, “why don’t you play us your whole song.”
Thomas ponders for a moment.
“I will. If only to show this dog how mistaken he is!”
Indy dismisses his comment. He looks as if he is going to reply, but doesn’t.
Thomas sings.
“Three Blinde Mice,
Three Blinde Mice,
Dame Iulian,
Dame Iulian,
the Miller and his merry olde Wife,
shee scrapte her tripe licke thou the knife.”
“I have never heard that one” I say.
“Play it again”, says Roy.
Three Blinde Mice,
Three Blinde Mice,
Dame Iulian,
Dame Iulian,
the Miller and his merry olde Wife,
shee scrapte her tripe licke thou the knife.”
“‘musing”, says Shakespeare, “for a child.”
Thomas stops.
“Ignore him” says Roy. “Again, if you don’t mind”.
Thomas begins again.
Roy taps on the table along with the melody.
Shakespeare, imperceptibly at first, begins tapping the table to the music, then harder as the music continues.
“It has appeal,” he says.
Thomas finishes, and seeing how everyone is enjoying it, plays again.
Roy and Shakespeare loudly tap along like two bongo players.
Suddenly, Indy joins in, banging the table like a crazed drum soloist, drowning out Thomas.
“ENOUGH!”, bellows the bartender. “THE LOT OF YOU! OUT!”
“My good man,” says Shakeseare, slurring slighty, “I have been friq..friquint.. coming to this ‘stablishment since…
“No back talk from you!” as he throws down his towel.
“I’ve seen one of yer hoity toity plays, MR. Shakespeare, with yer thee’s and yer thou’s. Ain’t nobody talks that way!”
“Hear, hear” chimes the patrons.
“My friends and I…”, Shakespeare protests.
“About them friends, with their strange clothes, strange speech. There’s something odd ’bout ’em, ‘specially that furry one.
“What’s wrong with…” Indy begins, but Roy stops him.
“If ya ask me, they’s trouble,” pipes in a man sitting at the bar.
“Probly French”, says another.
“Theys is Irish, they is”, says another.
“I AM NOT Irish!” shouts Shakespeare.
“I think this is our cue, guys,” I say.
Roy nods in agreement.
“Fine”, says Shakespeare, as he and Roy stand, a little unsteadily.
We head to the door. Thomas follows.
“Hey!” says the bartender. “What ’bout ‘im,” pointing to the table.
We all turn. Flopped over the table like a limp rag, out cold, is Indy.
I go back and pick him up.
As I approach the group, Roy leans in “never, ever tell him you had to carry him out. Ever.”
“This is one of those times I wish I had a camera,” I smirk.
Roy is not amused.
“With what you guys drank, besides Thomas,” I say, “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about what happened here.”
“Hmmph” grunts Roy. “Did want to meet Herbert.”
“Maybe next time,” says Thomas.
“Ha!” I laugh. “Like that’s going to happen.”
“At least not here,” says Roy as Shakespeare clumsily leads us out the door.