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PRINCE OF THE PINT CLUB
His name was Mr. Anthony Prince; never Tony Prince; or any other derivation of Anthony.
Until he felt the time was right, the correct way to address him was Mr Prince. Anyone overlooking the required formalities was immediately corrected to the proper form, irrespective of age or even the managerial seniority of the person addressing him.
He always reciprocated with formality; even those many years his junior, addressing them with the prefix of 'young Mr.'
His rod-straight back suggesting military training in his youth, he stood almost six feet. For someone in their early fifties, Mr Prince had a good physique. His head was topped with perfectly combed full natural brown hair, unruffled even after an eight hour working day. The barely noticeable symptoms of thinning only confirmed its naturalness.
His tie was always perfectly centred down the shirt-front and between the lapels of his jacket, with never a mark on any. Trousers, always cut to the correct length, freshly pressed with a prominent crease and no trace of a wrinkle mark anywhere.
He looked younger than his years suggested; and handsome without being a rugged sporting type. A broad forehead accented his light brown eyes beneath thick eyebrows. The high cheekbones tapered perfectly to a strong jaw. His nose was straight and correctly proportioned. Looks that made people turn and try and recall what movie they had seen that face in.
To the company directors he was exceptionally polite and deferential. Amongst his peers he was debonair certainly, but with a hint of arrogance. To the factory staff his air of aloofness was apparent in all his mannerisms.
Soon after my consulting contract began with his employer; Mr Prince discovered we lived in the same neighbourhood. Rather than waste fuel, and when it was convenient, we shared a car. It gave time to talk about my contract with his employer, saving time at work. In the car I was to call him Anthony, but had to revert to Mr Prince both at work and at the private club, which he had invited me to join a few weeks after my contract began.
On car-sharing days, we would depart an hour earlier and go to a coffee bar for a light breakfast. Mine followed by a cappuccino, his by a 'short black'. His regular habit dictated that we always visited the same coffee bar, and he always chose the same breakfast.
He was always greeted warmly and formally by the coffee bar employees.
"The same as usual Mr Prince?"
"Yes please."
My seeming disorganisation examining the menu board while the waiter stood around, then ordering different meals most mornings unsettled Mr Prince. I amused myself asking his opinion on which one I should try.
As my time in his presence grew, there were inferences from him of many spicy romances he had been involved in, without giving out details. Similarly vague revelations were made at the club, generally in response to someone else's tale or adventure if that happened to be the subject under discussion, as it frequently was, by a group at the club.
"Can't say too much, it could get me into trouble," was his reply."
The reason he would not elaborate was always assumed to be that his wife might get to hear it.
One of the few things that Mr. Anthony Prince was not aware was that my contract to redesign the accounting and audit system included payroll and the associated records. I therefore knew he was not, and never had been married, and wondered how he might get into trouble. I kept that information to myself.
Our employer was a multi-national company. He was a long-term permanent employee of many years. My contract was expected to take less than ten months. He advised he too could have been an independent consultant, but preferred long term company opportunities. He confidentially advised me he would be appointed a director; then ultimately managing director. Again, from payroll records, I noticed most existing directors were younger, and been with the company less time.
Within the firm of some 300 local employees, only a few were not on the factory floor. We both worked on administration.
When he invited me to join his invitation only ‘Pint Club’, I discovered it was in fact a club within a club. He told me it was a distinct privilege to be invited to ‘the club'. Some might be invited two or three times; after that, the existing members voted secretly whether to allow the invitee to become a member.
After canvassing members’ opinions, when a vote was to take place, members would be discreetly advised when entering, that someone was being polled as a prospective member that night. Members present voted by writing their initials and membership number on a five dollar note and adding a tick or a cross. The notes were deposited in a sealed jar kept hidden under the bar by a trusted barman. The barman was unofficially a full member. The presence of one cross and the attendee was not invited to join; effectively black-balled.
I was advised that few people were successfully invited as members, to partake of, and enjoy the benefits. The inference, without direct statement, was that he had to pull a few strings to get me invited without my having served some sort of long apprenticeship of waiting to get into this inner circle.
Apparently there were no hard and fast rules considering prospects. Existing members applied their own criteria. It seemed if the personality of the prospective member fitted the group then they received a tick on the voting notes.
If the prospect was accepted, their membership was confirmed with the presentation of an ornately designed pint jug or 'pot' with a spring-loaded lid opened by a trigger mechanism.
Some obscure coat of arms showed on one side and the members initials were clearly inscribed on the other. Under the initials were inscribed a number which signified the order in which club membership was given. I had become the 97th member admitted. Though called it a 'pot', it was made of glass. I called it a pint jug.
Mr Prince was number 27, though constant use and washing meant his number was fading rapidly. This presumably would be restamped or replaced.
Members’ jugs were kept in a highly visible glass cupboard above the bar with the initials and numbers in numerical order facing toward the patrons. It was obvious which members were present by the absence of their pot from the display cabinet. 'Non-members' were not told of the voting, or aware a vote was being taken, until awarded membership.
The proceeds of the vote were used to pay for any new member’s engraved pint jug, then accumulated and deducted from the food bill of the six-monthly dinner held for members and their wives, if they chose to bring them. Mr Prince, as the cuisine expert, would select the menu choices.
Members’ nights were Tuesday and Thursday each week including the Christmas and New Year breaks. I discovered that Tuesday was chosen over Monday because too many Mondays are lost because of the 'Mondayising' of public holidays. Attendance was always optional. Thursday rather than Friday was chosen because of Easter's Good Friday, and also not upset members’ private weekend travel plans.
The centrally located hotel was selected because it was nearest where most of the club’s originals worked. The local 'pub', knowing what was good for business, roped off part of the private bar for the exclusive use of the pint club on Tuesdays and Thursdays. No-one ever enlightened me how the club got started. That was probably because I never asked.
Drinking beer pints was not mandatory. But even the spirits drinkers took their drinks from the pint jugs.
I realised drinking out of covered 'pots' was a good idea. During any non-drinking period, the pot lid would automatically spring closed, therefore it was very hygienic.
Luckily, after attending three meetings, I was invited back for a fourth and was, with due ceremony, awarded my own jug proudly displaying my own initials.
I did not attend every night. I was not a regular drinker. Though Mr. Anthony Prince rarely, if ever, missed a meeting.
I had seen about 80 different faces with members pots over the time. Generally fewer than 20 were present on a Tuesday with up to around 60 on a Thursday. The age of the members varied widely from some in
their early 20's to a few in their late 50's. Most were between 30's, and early 40's.
The members’ professions were wide, though most were white collar workers in finance, computers, doctors, lawyers, engineers, clerks, and some civil servants. The blue collar workers included couriers, a taxi driver, garbage collector, fork-lift driver, and engineers.
Canvassing for work was discouraged but did not prevent ork being discussed, and the diverse occupations meant the topics were broad.
As the night progressed, the numbers grew; and they would break up into smaller groups with common interests.
To me, Mr Anthony Prince did not appear to be what he purported to be. There seemed a veneer beyond which nothing concrete could be seen. There was never anything that I could put my finger on, more a sixth sense.
I watched him intently when he listened to conversations of others within the groups as someone spoke of an experience, local or overseas, or an achievement of some note, sporting, work or academic.
Mr Anthony Prince would always nod agreeably, seemingly inferring he had seen it all before; occasionally making a comment like, "reminds of something that happened in my early 20's" or "something similar happened to me in my 30's."
The audience would pause and wait for explanation or a story. Mr Prince would strike a pose, perhaps an exaggerated lean on the bar, or a throat clearing cough. But a story was never forthcoming. It was always closed off by a simple. “Well, my experience, no that's all too long ago now, it’s all old hat, I don’t want to steal your limelight," accompanying it with a big grin.
Those returning from overseas trips would chat freely about their experiences or deeds. Mr Prince's response would be paternal and knowingly agreeable. His comment carefully worded like, "things have changed a lot since I was in my 20's."
Again, especially the younger members would wait, hanging off Mr. Prince's hoped for next words. They were always along the lines of "too much water under the bridge and too many changes since then."
It was quite obvious that the members held him in great respect, the younger members almost awe-struck in his presence and his seeming modesty about his broad range of achievements and experiences.
One of the members was selected as a state representative in rugby. The group, without exception, was in full praise of the achiever. Anthony showed his joy to the youngster as a proud father would do.
"You know, in my heyday, players were not selected at such a young age," he said. "Now they're all covered by insurance which provides the family with support if they're injured. Unfortunately I quit rather than risk my family responsibilities, just as reps, probably higher honours looked probable. Well, gossipers and newspapers touted such stuff anyway, but who’d believe them?" he would add with a saddened look.
The sympathies for his foiled opportunities gave greater admiration from the audience to this unfortunate and very modest Mr. Prince.
The only time I ever heard Anthony angrily disagree with any other club member was when the subject of the royal family was raised. He jumped in early in the discussion and berated the whole ancestry system of those on the throne, and the absence of any recognition for those perhaps entitled to be considered part of the wider royal family. He castigated the misuse of royal privilege for presumably taking sexual advantage of staff or other subjects. Then the abandonment of the resulting offspring he considered as an unconscionable act of betrayal to the royal bloodline.
His outspoken strong opinion, because it was so rare, stopped any contra viewpoints emerging, but questions of 'why?' would be thought about, but never asked aloud.
Occasionally he would talk about the untrustworthiness of the past corrupt generations and how family fortunes, reputations and wealth were frequently lost.
At subsequent meetings, among smaller groups, where Mr Prince was not part of the group, some quietly discussed theories pondering the extent of his royal blood and how his side of the royal family must have been disowned and lost their fortune.
To me, as a financial analyst and auditor, only interested in facts, I could see no evidence of the royal connection or his family disinherited wealth in any of the words he had spoken. I even had the temerity to once say, "Just because it has webbed feet doesn't make it a duck. Seagulls have webbed feet and they spend a lot of time around refuse tips."
The dark and disapproving looks I received were tantamount to my being blackballed from some conversations.
The end of my contract was rapidly drawing near. I was quite pleased to be finishing up. The firm was pleasant enough to work for, but Mr Prince’s continual unsolicited advice on what I should be doing with my life to improve it and become as successful as him was becoming tiring and intrusive. I increasingly made excuses to avoid the car-sharing arrangement. My visits to the Pint Club became rarer, using the excuse of pressure to finish the contract on time necessitating after hours work. I would remain on the company premises until he had gone.
Mr Prince continued his normal Tuesday and Thursday routine.
A week before the end of my contract, Mr. Prince phoned me at home to ask for a ride to work. He had to take his car to a service garage only 15 minutes walk from his home. I was to meet him outside the front gate of his property at the usual time. I offered to collect him from the garage but he insisted otherwise, because of the difficulty finding the service garage.
I duly arrived at the arranged time but Anthony was not outside the gate. I could see a shape moving past the window behind the light drapes and thought that, unlikely as it might have been, he might have been running late or even forgotten about delivering his car.
I decided to go to his front door and knock to make sure all was going to plan.
I was surprised when a wrinkled old lady, well into her eighties, answered the door.
"Is Mr Prince here?"
"No she said," with a very clear and lucid voice. "He's dropping his car off for service."
"Hello," I said, and introduced myself. "That's why I'm here, to give Anthony a lift to work."
"I'm expecting him back any minute now,” she said.
"O.K., thanks, I'll wait in the car downstairs."
My mobile phone rang
"Hello," I answered, guessing who it was.
"Anthony here. Look I'm sorry, I'll be delayed another 30-45 minutes until the chief mechanic arrives. You go on to work, I'll catch public transport."
"No," I said, "I know how far away from work that will take you, you'll end up being very late for work. I've got a newspaper, so it gives me the chance of a read and doing the crossword and sudoku until you arrive.”
"If you're sure?"
"Of course."
The dear old lady looked at me.
"That was Anthony," I said. "He's been delayed about 30 minutes. I'll just wait outside."
"No. Come in and have a quick cup of tea with me. I never get to meet any of Tony's friends. He keeps me hidden away," she laughed. Behind the laugh and look she gave, it displayed a sense of truthfulness behind the words.
Her frail wrinkled hand took my arm and she gently pulled me inside pointing to a well used easy chair.
"The jug's just boiled, so I've just made a fresh pot."
"That'll be fine,"
"How do you have your tea?"
"Milk and no sugar thanks." She had obviously never offered alternative beverages to people.
As I sat it felt like I was entering the outer room of a funeral parlour. All furnishings were dark and grey in colour. Little light came through the heavy blinds. A low wattage globe on the ceiling tried its best to cast shadows around the room.
I realised all the furnishings were covered with heavy blankets; and the table and four chairs around it looked old, without having any antique value.
Very quickly she was back in the room with a garishly painted wooden tray on which the teapot, two cups and saucers, a glass milk-jug, and sugar-bowl sat.
"I'll be Mother," she giggled, "seeing that is what I am."
She poured the tea with a steady hand and gave me my cup; then taking her own cup sat down opposite me.
I said. “You must be quite proud of Anthony and all he's achieved."
"You're being very sweet," she replied. "Tony's the middle boy of the family. He has an older brother and sister and a younger brother and sister."
"Oh," I said. "Very much a good sized traditional family of that generation."
"Yes, I suppose it was. I had little pet nicknames for all of my children. He was my little Prince Anthony, the son of the evil prince who was the banished reigning monarch of a faraway land. But he would never become king unless he ate all his greens and married a princess."
"We came off the farm when all the children had finished school," she went on. "The other four all went to university and are now spread all around the place including one in London and one in New York. All very successful."
"Was Anthony concentrating on his sport then?"
"Sport," she laughed. "He couldn't catch a ball if you put it in his pocket. He was never interested. The others were very successful in sport to varying degrees. All to a pretty good standard mind you."
"Does he visit his brothers or sisters overseas?"
"No. I'm always telling him to get a passport so he can. But he's never ever had one. I think he’s scared of flying. Even if a passport was needed to travel inter-state it would never have been used. I don’t even think he’s been out on the open highway."
"He's considered a very eligible bachelor at work."
"That's true. He is. He's had a few lovely girlfriends, but it never lasts for long. No woman can tolerate him once they get to know him. I keep on telling him not to be such a pedantic know-all. He’s an obsessive regarding tidiness. I just wished he’d leave home, married or not. But he can barely cook toast in a pop-up toaster without burning it It's such a shame because he loves children but he's never married and had children of his own. He loves his nieces and nephews. Around them he's like a patient old grandfather. I tell him he behaves like an old woman at times," she laughed again. "I tell him I'm meant to be the only old woman around here. He gets angry with me when I tell him that."
"Where's his father?"
"He died in prison about 20 years ago. It wasn't anything evil that he'd done. He'd invested the farm sale proceeds into a scheme which he didn't know much about. There were some crooks running the scheme and so Tony's father got charged as one of the financial backers. I think his father died of a broken heart at being charged under an obscure one of her ‘Her Majesty's’ laws of ancient time as being an accessory both before and after the fact. I know Tony was very upset and tried to distance himself from everyone. So, he's always lived at home with me since he was born."
I finished my tea just as my mobile phone rang again.
"Hello."
"Anthony here. We're on our way. I'll be there in about five minutes. Sorry about the delay."
"See you soon."
I pressed the off button on the phone and stood to leave, placing my tea cup and saucer on the wooden tray.
"Thank you very much Mrs Prince, it was a lovely cup of tea and good company."
“Oh," she said. "I'm not Mrs Prince. That's the name Tony changed to. I'm Mrs Blacksmith. Our name really shows what humble origins we come from doesn't it."
As I left I turned to her and said. “Really Mrs Blacksmith you should not admit strangers to your house so easily in this day and age."
“Oh my gosh no. It's funny you should say that because Tony was only warning me once again about that last night and again this morning. What have I done?" she said with quite a concerned look on her face.
“Let's keep my little visit and what we talked about a secret then," I nodded and winked at her.
“Oh yes," she said. "Would you mind? I would appreciate it, otherwise he'll nag on and on like the old woman he is." She laughed again.
“Our secret," I repeated, and turned and left. I heard the safety chain go on the door behind me, together with the sound of a couple of sliding bolts.
I had only been back in the car for about a minute when Anthony arrived. He moved quickly from the other car to mine and we set about heading to work.
“Maybe there's not enough time for breakfast and coffee this morning if that's alright for you."
“Fine, suits me," I replied.
“They'll deliver the car to my work this evening. You go on to the club, I'll meet you there. I've got to take the mechanic to the nearest train station. Then it's only a couple of minutes to the printers where I've got to drop off the annual report to be printed."
It was Thursday, and I had nearly finished my report. “Sounds good to me."
“It strikes me that mechanics are stupid these days," he said. "You know they weren't even knowledgeable about what needed doing, or how to go about doing it."
I listened during the rest of the journey about the shortcomings of modern mechanics, and thought of the words of his Mother.
During that day I thankfully only caught brief glimpses of Anthony. I do not know whether he left work before or after me, but he was not among those at the club when I arrived.
I was given my jug '97', and had a pint of draught pulled. It seemed I had been forgiven my ducks and seagulls comment of a few weeks before, and the slowly expanding group was in discussion about the duplicity of the government in its anti-pollution laws, while still allowing golf courses to pour massive amounts of fertiliser onto fairways and greens, with the subsequent run-offs polluting rivers and promoting algae growth.
The meeting was in peak session as usual around 8:15 p.m. for a Thursday night, when Anthony arrived. For the first time, and to the surprise of everyone, he looked dishevelled, and untidy. Tie askew, shirt creased, and mascara markings on his jacket
He entered with a grin as broad as I had ever seen. Even when it faded, it never faded to less than a smirk. The barman handed him his number '27', and said "I'll put you on the last round which I've just finished," he said looking at the buyer of that round in the small group Anthony had joined. The round-buyer nodded his agreement.
“What the hell's happened to you?" The question came from many sources. Others swelled the group numbers in anticipation of a story.
“Well," he said, parting his hands and shrugging his shoulders. "What can I say? I've still got it."
Various questions issued forth from the curious listeners.
“You know," he started, “you youngsters should be able to learn a lesson from the rewards of being a well bred, sophisticated and considerate gentleman."
“Come on, what happened," asked number 81, a member in his early 30's.
“Well, as my friend and colleague here was aware, I had a management task to undertake at the printers after work." He waved an arm in my direction. Some looked at me, even a few with a bit of a black look. The ducks and seagulls had not been forgotten by some.
“When I arrived at the front of the printers, the building looked closed. It was already dark. But there is nowhere to park in the front. I thought I could see lights still on inside, so I parked my car around the back of the building in their work car-park. It must have been a security light I spotted. It weakly shone through frosted windows. Otherwise it was dark and deserted with no other cars in the park. I knocked on the back door without response, then, went around to the front expecting to find a bell for some after-hour’s service. Instead there was just a large deep slot in the main doors for after-hours deliveries. So I slipped my envelope containing the report into it."
“When I turned around I noticed a rather attractive young lady, perhaps in her mid-20's, standing by the road, trying to wave down a taxi. I had noticed her out the front when I drove past.
In the dark I hadn't noticed how good looking she was."
“No success with the taxi’s?" I asked.
“No," she answered. "It’s peak time, when they pass here they've all been taken."
“She was knock em
down, set em up gorgeous. I was just wishing I was 20 years younger. But I didn't say that to her. Her top was white, loose fitting cotton; open enough to just give a hint of the cleavage of two good size nicely shaped breasts. The slightly above knee skirt was a flowing loose material which moved gently with the breeze or when she moved. Her legs had a nice shape.”
“No luck for you then either," she said.
“No, I’m not looking for a taxi. I had a delivery for the printer, but he seems to be closed. My car’s around the back."
“I stayed with her as we watched a few occupied taxis go by. The neighbourhood around there is not exactly the best. It could be dangerous for a lovely lady like you around here.’"
“Thank you for caring."
“Where are you from?" I asked.
“Way up north, off the farm. My parents have sent me down to stay with my sister and her husband."
“That's nice."
“No it’s not. They hardly gave me any money, and now I’ve got to waste some on a taxi. My parents, well they're just so strict. I mean, they won't let me do anything. It caused my boyfriend and me to break up over three months ago. They wouldn't even let me go out to visit my girlfriends."
“That's a shame."
“You really think so? You're nice; and good looking too."
Another filled taxi went by.
“Oh," she said, "I'm feeling so frustrated,” she said innocently.
"Hey, look. I'm not in a rush to go anywhere. Can I drop you somewhere?"
“Would you? I'd be ever so grateful."
“I'd hate to leave a pretty little thing like you stranded."
“Thank you, I knew you were a gentleman. Where are you parked again?"
“Just around the back of this building."
“With that she spun around, grabbed my hand and we started to walk to the car.”
“While we walked she carried on telling me about the farm and her parents.”
“You know the only reason my parents said that I was with my boyfriend was because of sex. God it's been over three months and I've been feeling as horny as hell all the way down here on the train."
“Where do you want me to take you from here?"
“Just down this road somewhere, but still a kilometre or two away. I haven't been there for a few years, but I'll remember the place as soon as I see it."
“We entered the darkened car-park and moved toward the car. “Can I give you a thank you kiss now?” she asked.
"Why not?” I answered. She held my cheeks in both her palms and kissed me briefly on the mouth.”
“Hmm. Nice. More please,” she said, then, she gave me a long kiss.
“God. Does that ever make me horny,” she said. She put a hand down and gently felt the rising bulge in my trousers.
“Seems like I'm not the only one feeling horny.”
Anthony looked at each of the listeners in turn. “It's been a lot longer time than three months for me," he said with a do not believe me grin on his face.
“I walked her on to the car.”
“Nice car” she said.
“I walked around to her side and opened the door for her.”
“Gee you are a real gentleman. My boyfriend never ever did that. You're a really nice kisser too, sets my bits fluttering."
“I got into my side of the car and was about to start it when she said, ‘just one more kiss please.’"
“Well a gentleman doesn't deny a ladies request, so I gave her another kiss.”
“She put her hand on my now screaming point, so to speak, and grasped my hand and put it between her legs. She was definitely in the mood.”
“Can you lay your seat back?” she said. I did so without further asking and she lowered hers. Only the accursed brake and gear-stick levers between us.”
“Afterwards I drove her down the street. Thankfully it was only a few hundred metres before she recognised her sister's house.”
Mr Prince looked around the now much larger assembled listeners at the club which had now swollen to take in most of the members. "So that gentlemen is why I'm late."
Choruses of “lucky bastard," and “wish that'd happen to me”, went around the group.
I had long before emptied number 97 and put my jug on the bar.
Mr Prince announced. "I guess this round’s on me then," he said to the gathered group. He looked around and realised from the group size that it was going to be an expensive round. "But I'm not paying for another drink for the rest of the month."
The barman looked at him. Anthony made a circle with his forefinger and pointed at his own chest. The barman nodded at his confirmation of the payment for the round.
The large group then broke into smaller groups. Most recanting about Mr Prince’s luck; and loud laughter would occasionally erupt.
It took quite a few minutes for all the attendees to refill their pots before I saw the barman catch Anthony’s eye.
On returning from the bar, Mr Anthony Prince walked toward me and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Got a minute?" he asked.
“Sure. What can I do for you?"
He led me out of the private bar to the small greeting booths near the reception area.
“You're all mysterious Anthony."
“I must ask that you please keep what I’m about to say top secret. For ever. And only between us.”
I nodded.
“Terrible thing to ask, but have you got a couple of hundred you can loan me?"
“Sure, did you leave your wallet at home?"
“No, my wallet’s firmly in my pocket. But I just went to pay the bar and I just noticed the bitch must’ve emptied it of all my cash and credit cards."