The King George was an old-fashioned looking place, not exactly spit and sawdust, but at least it hadn’t been turned into one of those soulless chain pubs, nor thankfully one of those ghastly trendy wine bars. No, the George, as it was affectionately called, was a cosy, warm, and welcoming place.
“What’s your poison, gentlemen?” the landlord asked.
Tom got our drink orders from us.
“Say, Gary,” Tom asked, “is Tim playing tonight?”
“He should be in around half eight as usual.”
Tom turned to me and Mark and told us Tim was the pianist he’d talked of earlier. “He just plays a few numbers, and the regulars join in if they know the words.”
“And also if they don’t,” Gary added.
“Can we have some menus, please, Gary?” Cliff asked.
“Sure.” Gary ducked under the bar and came up holding the
