Everything in Its Place

The Anchor had one snug, one polished stool and one landlady who watched everything. It stood where the quay turned into the old town, a low-beamed pub with brass that had been polished so long it had lost its colour, and a coal fire that someone had been feeding the same way for thirty years. At that hour the room was nearly empty, and Vera Mead dried a glass she had already dried.

“Order, love?” she said, when you asked. “That’s what we do here. Same stools, same jokes, same nod to the same man. Nobody has to make us. We just agree, every night, what sort of night it is.” She held the glass to the light. “Thrift Day, now. We all agreed it was a celebration. Never mind the strike, never mind the notice on the works gate. Nobody said a word out of turn. That’s what you’re looking at, Doctor. Not a rule. A habit of agreeing.”

“And if the scene changes?”

“Then the whole thing wobbles,” said Vera. She put the glass down with great care. “Somebody steps out of their part and we all stop knowing which play we’re in.”

Jonah, who’d been waiting to be clever, whispered: “Definition of the situation.” Vera, who’d never read the books, looked at him kindly. “Well, yes,” she said.