Open up Missus, it’s six and they’re dying for drink. Cabby’s parked his Ford Prefect round the back and Frank Smith is coming up from the field. Knocker is puffing up the drive and Major won’t be far behind.
Mrs Turner’s here with her jug, always first. “A pint of Mild in there please, and I’ll have a Crown Ale while I’m waiting.” Surprise, surprise, she always does. Mrs Turner has a brewing tub in her back kitchen. All the old terrace houses on Bunyan Road have one. Home brew was common when they were built.
Major’s settled in at the bottom of the stairs, his ‘baccy pouch on the shelf and the Gold Block burning well. “A good pint of Bitter as always please, keeps a man alive, I say.”
Knocker’s laying out his coppers on the table, two shillings; there’ll be change from two pints of Mild and Bitter tonight.
Here’s the first tray full, Cabby’s Oatmeal Stout, he looks like he needs it, Frank’s Bitter in a straight glass and Knocker’s Mild and Bitter in a handle.
Frank sprawls on a bent wood chair on the right near the fire. Knocker and Cabby slip into their favourite corners on the bench behind the scrubbed deal table on the left.
Mrs Turner won’t go in the Tap Room so she hovers by the kitchen door chatting to my Mother, in the cellar drawing pints. A kilderkin of Mild and one of Bitter are up and drawing, two more are waiting, on the still, untapped and covered with damp cloths to keep them quiet.
Major appears at the cellar steps, proffers his straight for a refill. “Two’s the limit, it used to be three, or more, in India but the weather was warmer and we needed it.” Come Christmas and he’ll have a gin and tonic to celebrate.
Come Christmas and perhaps Dr Vaughan will walk over the road for quick one. He won’t drink in the village for fear of meeting nobody but his patients and spending the evening in informal consultancy. “No such thing." he always insists. The Slater's Arms is his favourite, where he is practically incognito
Come Christmas, but it's not yet the summer, when we'll get young people sitting outside at the table near the back door. They'll be served from the cellar hatch. The Boot's licensed premises stretch to the back garden and the big back yard. It's because of the Statty on the back field.
Thurston's will squeeze their trucks, trailers and caravans up the drive and across the yard into the field. Setting up the Dogems, the shies, the flying chairs and the rifle range takes all day. We've been saving old bottles for the shooting all year. They've plugged in to us for the fairy lights but they'll need to run their diesels for the rides. It's noisy, the music blasts through the night air, there's a smell of toffee apples and diesel fumes, it's the Statty. Kempstonians stream up the drive. Some stop for drink on the way up or the way back, the cellar hatch is crowded. I came holding my mother's hand while father was away at the war.
Some lash out on bags of crisps. They’re in the side cupboard in their tin box. Smiths of course, with the salt in a blue paper twist. It’s always at the bottom and there’s a knack in shaking the bag to bring it to the top. We're running out of glasses, let's get collecting and washing up. Tap another barrel, Thurston's men will empty it before the draymen come on Tuesday.
They don't bring their dray with horses anymore. Now it's a big wheezing beer lorry that rocks and jingles empty bottles on soft springs. The slide is down, "Four today?" "Must be a party going on." They help my father man-handle them onto the still. A pint each, on the house of course, it helps them to see the marks on the brass ullage dipstick. No time for more. The horses used to get their feed bags so the draymen could drink while they were munching. Now the lorry sits there ticking and cracking as it cools off, but ready to go.
We're last today, so it's back to Biggleswade for them. With the horse dray they used a Bedford depot, but that's long closed. "I know it's progress, “Mother would say, “but the horses were much better. That lorry's not good for the beer. It arrives too lively from shaking and we need a week on the still to settle it. The old chaps won't touch it if it's not drawing clear."
She didn't want anyone with an upset stomach from drinking at The Boot.
But then Wells and Winches sold out to Greene King. The bitter beer, which was filled into the legendary sherry barrels, disappeared. New bottled varieties appeared that nobody had heard of, let alone tasted. Only the Crown Ale survived.
The Statty permit was revoked and the village’s old Statute Fair was no more. Our old men drifted away, “This beer’s so bad it makes you want to give up drinking.” Greene King sold the land and building to developers.
The hedgerows around the old field and the Saxon burial ground were rooted up. Daisy’s stable was knocked down. The two old cottages on the field way were demolished. The neighbour's houses were bulldozed into piles of rubble. Our walnut tree and our apple trees were felled and finally the old Boot Inn, stately lady, last of her kind in the County, was pulled down. On the last day a fire was made to burn the taproom furniture, the deal tables and the benches, even the piano. The old beams were thrown on, including the one where the old carpenters had written 1699 in nails over the door.
Nothing remained, even the glasses were smashed. I have two pint pots from George the fifth’s time in my cupboard and the ullage dipstick on the wall. I would have liked to have kept the builder’s plate saying “I.B. 1699” that was embedded in the wall just outside my room, but somebody smashed it with a sledge.
Mother stood crying. "They shouldn't have done that. That was a crime." But "they" were not there.
William Walker and Ethel, last license holders at The Boot Inn, walked away with nowhere to go.
