The Lower Strangling Chronicles
It was a pleasant September morning when summer was slowly making way for Autumn, and Robert Sherman, Lower Strangling’s resident brewer, strode through the village towards the Hangman’s Noose, ready to sample his own produce as he was wont to do.
He breezed into the pub and made a beeline for the bar where his friends were already sitting, but then something distracted him.
A woman in her late forties, like Robert, sat alone at a table staring at her wine glass.
They were both considerably older than when they first met, but her flowing brown hair and penchant for woollen pink blouses were unmistakable.
He recognised his crush from year nine, and she still had the power to make his heart beat fast and his stomach flutter.
Robert glanced at his friend and manager, John, resolutely serving patrons behind the bar as always, then at the woman called Rebecca.
For a moment, she peered up and locked eyes with Robert; she looked at him as if thirty years had not passed.
Robert couldn’t stop a small smile from appearing on his face, and he marched over to her table.
He tentatively eased himself into the seat opposite her, and cleared his throat.
“Hello again,” Robert said, a tight-lipped grin above his chin.
“Robert, hi,” Rebecca said, beaming at the brewer. “How lovely to see you again; it’s been ages.”
She shook his hand, her small touch sending shockwaves through his body and causing his pulse to race.
He gazed at the empty wine glass in front of her, and frowned.
“I see, so you’re an oenophile. Perhaps a sign that we were never meant to be,” Robert said, sighing and lowering his head.
Rebecca smiled at him and laughed. “You prefer beer, do you?”
Robert grabbed the small pad of paper in front of him and scribbled his order on the top sheet.
“I’m a little more than a mere cervisiaphile,” Robert said, ripping the top Post-it note from the pad. “Brewing is my livelihood.”
“Ah, interesting,” Rebecca said, nodding.
Robert rose from his seat and traipsed over to the bar.
Rebecca watched as her former school friend spoke to the barman, who then gazed in her direction and waved.
She waved back, and scrolled aimlessly on her phone until Robert returned to the table.
Rebecca glanced up at Robert, and smiled. “It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it?”
Robert’s eyes widened for a moment. “You’re out by a few days, but you’re in the right ballpark.”
Rebecca sifted through her bag and brought out a wrapped gift. “Great, so you won’t be opposed to opening my present then.”
She pushed the present to the brewer, who stared at it.
“You bought me a gift,” he said, gawping at her. “Despite not having seen me for thirty years.”
“I have a knack for remembering people,” Rebecca said. “I also did my research. I already knew you lived here, Bob, and I wanted to meet you again.”
Robert stared at his former crush; his eyes were as huge as his mouth was minuscule. “You’ve finally decided to give me a chance?”
Rebecca cackled and showed Robert her wedding ring. “No. I’ve been married for twenty years and have kids. I just saw you were in the area and thought I’d say hi.”
“So you are here for me?” Robert said, carefully removing the wrapping paper from his present.
Rebecca grinned slightly. “Partly. But enough about that; you open your present.”
Robert squinted at his former crush and examined the box his gift came in.
“A plastic drum of some sort,” Robert said as he opened the box. “You do realise I’m forty-seven, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course! So am I,” Rebecca said. “It was just something I found in Dibel that I thought you’d like.”
Robert scrutinised the drum as he tapped it. “Brave of you to visit Dibel with the Middle East as unstable as it is.”
Rebecca chortled, rocking in her chair. “Yes, I suppose it has become a hairy place to live.”
“You live in Dibel?” Robert said, silently thanking John as he served Robert his Throckmorton Ale.
“Yes, my husband chose it as a place to settle a few years ago,” Rebecca said. “Tax haven.”
“I see,” Robert said, sipping his Throckmorton Ale. “What’s Dibel like? Is it particularly worth visiting? I’ve been meaning to visit that part of the world when the geopolitical climate has calmed down somewhat.”
“It’s ok, actually,” Rebecca said, leaning back in her seat. “But we’re planning to move back to Britannia; that’s really why I’m here.”
Robert’s eyes widened. “You’re planning to make a move to Lower Strangling.”
“Possibly, or somewhere in this area,” Rebecca said. “It doesn’t really matter where we live; Cameron just wanted to set up shop here so he can be more involved in Britannic politics.”
Robert sipped his beer. “I see, your husband’s something of a politico, is he?”
Rebecca nodded. “Yes, in a way. He’s been an overseas donor for a few years now, but now he wants to be more directly involved.”
“Interesting,” Robert said. “Which party does he donate to, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Rebecca beamed at her former schoolmate. “Christoph Flooding’s Fascist Party.”
Robert choked on his beer, causing a raucous cough that caught the attention of everyone in the pub.
Simon Abernathy, Lower Strangling’s parish priest, valiantly marched over to Robert and gave him the Heimlich manoeuvre.
Rebecca observed as the brewer’s predicament was resolved.
“I take it you’re not a fan, then?” Rebecca said, frowning.
“Not particularly,” Robert said, regaining his breath. “Lower Strangling, as a village, is predominantly vaguely left-wing.”
“Ah,” Rebecca said. “It is a particularly tolerant village?”
“It depends,” Robert said. “Favourite colour, yes? Thoughts on various people’s right to exist? Not so much.”
“I see,” Rebecca said, frowning at her wine glass.
“You and your husband will receive a warm welcome,” Robert said, sipping his beer. “But any friendliness will be nothing more than cleverly disguised passive aggression.”
“Interesting,” Rebecca said. “Could you vouch for Upper Strangling?”
“Alas, I don’t know what Upper Strangling is like as a place to live,” Robert said. “We’re not on close terms with them.”
Rebecca nodded. “I guess I’ll have to see for myself then, don’t I?”
“I’m afraid you will,” Robert said, sighing. “Middle Strangling may also be worth checking out.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Rebecca said.
“Then again, if your husband is so insistent on supporting Lord Flooding’s political endeavours, maybe it’s best if you set up shop in Cygninia or thereabouts,” Robert said.
“That’s a possibility,” Rebecca said. “But Cameron wants to live somewhere that’s the epitome of the Saxonian idyll, which is the Codesuualts to a T.”
“Yes, I guess they are,” Robert said, sniffing and wiping his nose.
Rebecca noticed the brewer’s forlorn appearance as he stared silently at his hands, stooped over.
She tilted her head and gently touched Robert’s hands, making him flinch. “Oh, Bob. You haven’t dwelt on what might have been these past thirty years, have you?”
Robert jerked his hands away and scowled at his former crush. “On the contrary. The art of brewing allows little time for the contemplation of meaningless counterfactuals.”
Rebecca straightened her posture and smiled. “Good.”
Robert glanced up at Rebecca and gazed at her through his red, puffy eyes. “Besides, it wouldn’t have worked anyway. Since you chose Cameron Hargreaves.”
Rebecca crossed her arms. “So you’re aware of Cameron, then?”
“Of course, anyone who’s abreast of current affairs knows who Cameron Hargreaves is,” Robert said. “He’s the crypto billionaire whose £51 million donation to the Fascist Party has got Lord Flooding in hot water.”
“Oh,” Rebecca said. “I didn’t realise that made the news.”
“I assumed that’s why you’re moving back to Britannia,” Robert said, finishing the dregs of his ale. “So he can continue filling Christoph’s coffers whilst being on the right side of the law.”
“That does make sense, actually,” Rebecca said. “And there was me thinking he was just feeling homesick.”
Robert’s arms hung low as he sat in silence, staring dully at the woman in front of him.
After a while, Rebecca rose from her chair and picked up her bag.
“Right, I think I’ll go to Upper Strangling before I’m pounced upon by the people here,” Rebecca said. “It was nice seeing you again, Robert.”
Robert slowly stood up, trying to ignore the soreness in his throat and chest.
“I enjoyed reacquainting with you,” Robert said. “At least initially.”
Rebecca pulled Robert into a warm embrace, which he reluctantly returned.
The people at the bar silently observed their friend’s interaction with the mysterious woman.
Rebecca gazed at Robert one final time before flitting out of the pub.
Robert turned to the bar and lumbered towards the empty stool.
“You’re done with your lady friend then?” John said.
“In short, yes,” Robert said, pointing to the Throckmorton Ale pump. “I’d like another glass of Throckmorton Ale.”
John smiled warmly at his friend. “Sure. Coming right up.”
“Who was that woman, Robert?” Simon said. “A prospective lover perhaps?”
“It might not be romantic love, mate,” Bruce Richardson, Lower Strangling’s chill Australian poacher, said. “Blokes and Sheilas are perfectly capable of being just mates.”
“Yes, you’re right, Bruce,” Simon said. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“She was an old school friend of mine,” Robert said. “I was infatuated with her once, but any admiration I had for her has evaporated entirely.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Simon said. “She seemed like a lovely woman.”
“Yes,” Robert said. “Seemed being the significant word.”
John handed him a golden pint of Throckmorton Ale.
“Did she taste your good work, Robert?” Simon said. “I’m sure she’d be proud of how far you’ve come since your school days.”
Robert stared into his beer glass. “She didn’t. She prefers wine.”
“A woman of my own heart,” Paul Stiller, Lower Strangling’s affable wine merchant, said as he jovially swirled his glass of Cabernet Sauvignon and promptly quaffed it.
“Yes, indeed,” Robert said, glaring at Paul.
And so Robert Sherman silently glugged down his beer while his friends chatted about banal topics such as their plans for the day and current affairs.
As for his crush from year nine, well, she never crossed his mind again until her appearance on the news, after even more information about her husband’s nefarious financial dealings came to light, forced him to answer many awkward questions from his peers.
The Robinsonverse 