Knock
Three Times
By
Dominic Horton
There
was a strange occurrence at the Flagon & Gorses this
week and no, before you ask, the Pirate didn't denounce the benefits
of beer and join the Temperance Society. On Monday evening after
eating our scrumptious steaks Pat Debilder, Mother Teresa and I
repaired to the bar from the Barbara Cartland lounge to stretch out
and relax to let our internal organs undertake the arduous task of
starting to digest the various cheeses that we had for dessert. If
you eat an excess of cheese the heart (the foreman of the organs)
tells the pancreas, spleen and stomach that overtime
is compulsory and all leave is cancelled for a fortnight,
which in my experience is about the length of time it takes the
body to process a decent amount of fromage. There is a standard joke
in such circumstances in the internal organ game whereby the spleen
quips to the heart, “sorry boss I am going to stay off work, I am
sick to the stomach,” the rectum pipes up, “yes it's the
stomach's fault, he hasn't got the guts for the job” and the
stomach retorts back to the rectum, “put a sock in it, you are
talking out of your ars*.”
 |
Neddy
La Chouffe making a one-off
appearance behind the bar in the Flagon,
accompanied by the Pirate.
|
So
I was sitting there in my gluttonous state, contemplating how I was
going to cram my pint of stout into my bursting stomach when my
cogitations were abruptly interrupted by three clearly audible and
distinct knocks which appeared to emanate from the room
above us in the pub: “KNOCK – KNOCK – KNOCK.” The landlord, my crony the Pirate, was
drinking with us in the bar so he was not the Phantom Knocker.
Chilli Willy quickly scaled the stairs to investigate the matter,
which was a good idea because Willy has the looks and frame of the
fictional mafia hitman Luca Brasi so any self
respecting burglar or ghoul would flee at the
sight of him before they ended up sleeping with the fishes. In the
Dudley No. 2 canal.
Willy
found no human or spiritual being upstairs so the only knockers in
the pub were being kept safely under wraps in the confines of ladies'
braziers and Willy was not about to go investigating there for fear
of a slap round the face. So the matter remained a mystery,
especially as Tony Orlando wasn't in the house singing “knock three
times on the ceiling if you want me.”
Despite
the menacing threat of the Phantom Knocker we all stoically drank on
with a Dunkirk spirit and I paid no more mind to the incident. That
is until I sat down to write this edition of Lowlife and
I read through my scribbled notes. Three words that I jotted down a
couple of weeks ago caught my eye as they eerily read, “Knock three
times.” The note refers to a nightmare that I had, which was a
one-off as it didn't follow the usual pattern of my
enduring reoccurring nightmare, which goes something like
this: the Phantasm slowly ascends the stairs with me getting
increasingly terrified – the Phantasm approaches me in bed and I am
powerless to defend myself – he then either taps my shoulder or
sits on my chest whence I wake up in a flustered panic – after a
few seconds I realise it was just my old friend the Phantasm and I
have a little titter to myself and try to go back to sleep.
 |
| The “Knock 3 Times” note in my barely legible handwriting. |
But
this nightmare was different as it simply consisted of three
foreboding knocks that jolted me from my slumber and I quickly
realised that the knocks were not real but I had dreamt them. I
mused at the time that the Phantasm must have forgotten his key and
that if I give it a minute he will be throwing stones at the window
to get me to let him in. I made a brief note of the nightmare but
overlooked it when I wrote last week's edition as I had other
material to work with. And I thought no more about the nightmare
until I read my notes today.
Now
I am trying to make sense of the two connected knocking incidents and
the first thing that springs to mind is that it could be a warning to
me from the sinister Serial Killer that he is coming to get me. The
Serial Killer is a stony faced man who sometimes frequents the Flagon
& Gorses, who sits down alone or stands at the bar in silence,
with a cold, expressionless countenance and steel toecaps on his
feet. As our nickname for him suggests he has the appearance of a
stereotypical serial killer but it is more than likely the case than
in actuality he is a thorough decent and friendly chap.
 |
Tony
Orlando, by request of Toby In-Tents.
|
For
a little while Neddy La Chouffe has theorised that the Serial Killer
is after me as not only has he given me some icy stares but he has
also popped up in other pubs that I have taken refuge in. La
Chouffe's seedling of an idea has grown to such an extent in my mind
that if the Serial Killer is in the Flagon I won't go to the toilet
alone for fear of never returning. So I now not only have to live
with the metaphysical threat of the Phantasm but also the material
threat of the Serial Killer. I probably need to try and strike up a
conversation with the Serial Killer to dispel my fears
about him but it might make matters worse if it turns out that he is
an undertaker or even worse a grave digger.
The
knock three times occurrences was not the only coincidence
(if it was a coincidence) that happened this week. For my birthday a
few weeks ago the lovely Ms C gave me a new poetry anthology by
Liz Berry entitled Black Country, which includes
wonderfully written and evocative pieces that earned the
author the Forward Prize for Poetry – Best First Collection. I
started to read the book on Wednesday and shortly after I checked my
emails only to learn from a mailshot from Dudley Libraries that the
author was holding a poetry reading at Gornal Library the very next
day as part of National Poetry Day.
I
finally found Gornal Library and on entrance into the small, L-shaped
building I thought to myself that there appeared to be no obvious
space suitable enough for the event. There was half a dozen middle
aged to elderly women sitting around a table, knitting and chatting.
There was a number of seats laid out immediately adjacent to the
knitters and then it dawned on me that oddly the poetry reading was
to be held there. On surveying the room I was relieved to find that
the Serial Killer was not in attendance.
 |
| The late Barbara Cartland. |
Liz
Berry started the reading but sadly she could not be heard above the
din of the knitters who rudely persisted with
their incessant chattering. After a couple of poems the
librarian was forced to ask the knitters to quieten down but
disappointingly she didn't take the opportunity to to use the
librarians' stock and cliched rebuke of “Ssssshhhhh!!!!!” Soon
after being chided the knitters regressed back to their naughty
schoolgirl behaviour and once more started to tattle but even more
loudly than before. The librarian would have been within her rights
to kick the knitters out but instead she suggested we move the
session to the more peaceful childrens' area, which we did.
After
the delightful and enriching reading Liz instigated a discussion and
it was interesting to hear people's views, thoughts
and reminiscences. It got me thinking about the identity of the
Black Country and its people today, now that the heavy industry has
long since disappeared. The stereotypical Black Country man is seen
as a hard working, tough, strong, manful character who could lift
heavy sacks of pig iron and withstand the burning heat of working in
a furnace or the hardships of a pit. I make no effort to disguise the
fact that among other things that I have a teddy bear,
I suffer from anxiety and I am often scared of my own shadow and that
I have the physical strength of an
ailing and decrepit pygmy. Does this make me any less
a Black Country man? I am not entirely certain of the answer to that
question but one thing is for sure it does make me a potential
defenceless victim for the Phantom Knocker or the Serial Killer. I'll
see you next week
dear readers. Hopefully.
©
Dominic Horton, October 2014.
*
EMAIL: lordhofr@gmail.com.
*
Lowlife is dedicated to the memory of the late Jonathan Rendall
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