Life Behind Bars (14 page)

Within the first hour we had
discovered Mr. Black had two kids, had been in the Revenue for all his working
life and he had Crohn’s disease and quite simply he hated his job, and wanted
to retire on grounds of ill health.

We made all the right noises,
made him comfortable and promised to make life as easy as possible.  For
some unholy reason this worked.  He was obviously made to feel as
uncomfortable as possible on other premises and I can understand why.  But
he almost became my very BFF.

A VAT inspection on premises like
mine can take months so we were in it for the long haul.  On days when I
knew he was coming I had the fire in the bar lit early so the room was
comfortable.  We made him coffee and a small breakfast.  John spent
as long as he could chatting so that most of the morning was taken up in
pleasantries.  We let him do a bit of work then it was lunch time and he
had delicious home made soup and tit bits. 

One of the symptoms of Crohn’s
disease is that you spend an awful lot of time in toilets and usually they are
very public or not particularly pleasant.  So here he was; private suite,
warm surroundings, food and coffee on tap.

In the afternoon he did a bit of
work, and then into the car and off home around 3pm to miss the traffic. 
All in all, he really didn’t get much done and John and I knew he would have
limited time to wrap up the case.

During the time he was with us,
we fed him and cosseted him and I have to say it paid off.  Of course he
found anomalies but he kept it to the minimum.  He had to be seen to be
doing his job but we got off more than lightly and we parted on excellent
terms, hoping never to see one another again professionally.

Over the next few years Mr and
Mrs. Black and the Black children visited us from time to time and of course
were extended my hospitality; they never abused it and of course, I was earning
Brownie points.

Points I never thought I’d ever
need to cash in!

On the very day I sold the pub,
unbelievably, an appointment for an inspection arrived.  Well, I thought I
was high and dry, but oh no!  Even though I wouldn’t be in residence the
business was still functioning and had not been wound up.  An inspection
had been arranged and an inspection would be carried out.  I was gutted,
let’s face it I would never be that lucky again, or would I?

On the morning of the first visit
I was in John’s office and believe me, I was bricking it.  Lo and behold,
who turned up but Mr. Black and he was delighted to see us.  Greeted me
like a long lost pal and spent the whole morning in John’s office
reminiscing.  Yes his kids were doing well and yes he still hated his job
and his Crohn’s disease was getting worse.  What a shame we had sold up,
he had really been looking forward to spending time there.  Apparently he
had volunteered for the job!

We spent all the morning chatting
and I don’t think any work was done, but as he was preparing to leave, he said
a very strange thing.  He assured me that he hadn’t cost me much money the
last time and he didn’t expect it would be much this time.  That was all
very well; you’d think I would have learned my lesson. Oh fuck!  I’d
fiddled treble the amount this time and the prospect of jail was looming large
again.

He settled into a routine very
quickly.  He’d come on Tuesday and Friday and in between we’d produce the
fictitious figures he was looking for.  John and I met on Monday and
Thursday to get everything right.

Towards the conclusion of the
case I arrived at John’s office one Monday morning as usual and was astounded
to find the alarm activated and three squad cars in attendance.

John arrived and on entering the
building, who did we find but a very red faced Mr. Black?  His 9am appointment had failed to turn up and having nothing particular to do and not wanting
to return to his office, he had decided to call on John for a cup of coffee and
a catch-up.

Arriving at the office, he had
found it open but no John, who he assumed would be on his way.  Due to
over indulgence at the weekend his illness had been playing up and he had
retired to the loo with his paper, delighted to have the place to
himself.  In the meantime, the other inhabitant of the building had had to
leave, checked that there was no-one in any of the other offices, locked up,
set the alarm and headed off.

Meantime Mr. Black had enjoyed
the solitude, finished his paper and ablutions and prepared to face the day
again.  As soon as he left the comfort and safety of the toilet of course,
all the alarms were activated and he couldn’t vacate the premises as they were
locked from the outside.  He would have to explain to his superiors what
he was doing on the other side of town when he should have been working on
another case.

As you can guess, not a story he
would want to get out.  He wrapped up my case, there and then and in fact
I got a small rebate.

Tweety pie . . .

As a publican you are expected to
know everything.  What time the chemist closes?  Where’s the nearest
bank?  Often the requests to do or keep things border on the ridiculous.

One afternoon one of the ‘smelly brigade’
asked the barmaid to put a small box behind the bar for safety.  It was a
small white box with what looked to be air holes along the side.  Now and
again there was a slight scratching sound coming from it.  Lisa the
barmaid was too busy to pay attention or investigate.

Then enters the landlord: my
husband.  Now David has a ‘thing’ about ‘things’ behind the bar; he goes
mad, and quite rightly too.  Drinks are being served and can be
contaminated so unidentified ‘things’ should not be there.

Of course, what’s the first thing
he spies?  The box.

“What’s this?”  He roars,
picking it up and shaking it extremely violently.

“Hey, what you doin’ with ma
budgie?” shouts the owner of the box. 

Oh dear! I hope it wasn’t the
last one in the shop!

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Often you’d get involved in the
daftest of conversations and not have a clue how, or what the hell it was
about.  Worse than that, you are sober but sound like the stupid one.

Two dafties who came in every day
were obsessed with the bus and train schedules.  They continually asked
me: what time was the next bus?  What about the one after and which one
went where?  What about trains?  When was the next one?  What
time would it arrive?  What infuriated me was the daft buggers lived
nowhere near a train station and would have to catch a bus from the station
home.  So the next question would be about the buses running from the
station.  It drove me mad!

For example:

“Will the number 44 take me to Haddington?”
asks one.

 
“Noooo . . . ’fraid
not.”  I reply.

“What about me?”
 
asks
the other daftie . . .

Lost property . . .

Jackets, coats, umbrellas, mobile
phones and shopping were all left with such regularity that we stopped even
having a Lost Property—the building wasn’t big enough.  One lady phoned,
asking if we had found her dentures.  Items like these are left so
frequently we actually tape them together and date them.  What happens is;
the diner orders a steak, finds he or she can’t chew it, takes out their teeth
and wraps them in a napkin.  Yes, they forget and then throw the napkin
away.  So when the girls are clearing tables they will always shake the
napkin just in case.

Anyway, this lady phoned to ask
if we had come across her dentures.  The form of identification is the
date; that narrows it down a bit.  She informed us her party were in the Carvery
on Boxing Day.  Nothing strange about that?  It was now the 12
^th
of March.  Obviously she didn’t go out much!

I’ve had a glass eye and a false
leg left, not by the same person.  Well I don’t think so.  I mean how
can people forget such things?  An umbrella I can understand.  Jackets,
yes.  Mobile phones, yes.  But a fucking false leg?  Surely
you’d wonder why you were walking in circles, or hopping!  I can’t ‘see’
how anyone wouldn’t miss a glass eye, but they did and it was never claimed.

Babies; you wouldn’t believe how
many babies!  Mother comes in, meets her cronies, has a few spritzers and
then goes off merrily, leaving the baby in our care.  Fantastic!  Just
what we want, a shitty, smelly, crying baby.

The Grafter

I used to dread Monday mornings,
or ‘Giro Days’ as we called them.  Oh, we were busy enough but the bar
resembled a doctor’s surgery or, as Zander used to call it, ‘God’s waiting
room.’  This is where we were entertaining the walking wounded.  Such
a collection of walking sticks, zimmer frames, neck braces, plaster casts, aka
‘stookies’ was incredible.  And that was just the staff!

Most of my allegedly disabled regulars
were fitter and more agile than I, but I was expected to work a twelve hour day
to cater for them and listen to their grouches and arguments as to whose
condition was the worst.  Unbelievably this often resulted in ridiculous
challenges and Herculean tasks.  That is, until they remembered they were
‘disabled’ and would lose their money!

There was one who actually ended
up in the News of the World branded as a benefit cheat.  Norman was a
scallywag; you know the type, not really bad but as fly as the devil.  He
had a squad of kids and his wife had gone off on the trot with some toy boy or
other and left Norman literally holding the baby.  All seven of
them! 

He was a grafter and had run his
own building business for years.  Not quite a cowboy, more an Indian, but
a cheap one at that.  He drove a reasonably nice car and was never short
of money.  He looked after all his kids and looked after them well. 
All in all, he was reckoned to be one of the good guys!  The men he would
employ from time to time always spoke well of him and they never had to go
looking for their money.

No wonder!  This bugger, it
seems, knew every dodge in the book.  And every benefit that could be
claimed would be claimed by him.  He was entitled to God knows how much
Family Allowance (seven kids.)  Family Income Support, one of the children
needed extra support so there was an allowance for that.

He was claiming Invalidity
Allowance (bad back,) Attendance Allowance (even sorer back,) Mobility
Allowance (nice car!) and every other government run scheme available. 
This went on for years and he had an income of about £25K in benefits
alone.  Being a successful builder would bring its rewards too and it was
estimated that he was earning £60K to £70K tax free.  Not bad for someone
with a bad back!

The main problem with being a
cheat is that you can’t afford to upset anyone and to be fair, Norman was a
nice guy and it wasn’t really a problem he’d encountered before.  But now
there was the ex-wife.  It appeared that, having tired of the magnificent
sex with the toy boy, she wasn’t as young as she made out to be and she
hankered after her old life.  Norman was nothing if not generous (let’s
face it he could afford to be!)  But he was having none of it.  She’d
made her bed and could lie in it for a while longer as far as he was
concerned.  Woe betide him.  ‘Hell Hath No Fury’ and of course she
knew all his little secrets (not that little!) because she’d devised most of
them.

Norman had worked away steadily
for years and years.  He was maybe a little complacent and did not for one
moment think anyone would be watching him or investigating his ten year benefit
claim.  It is likely that this would have gone on for another ten years if
only he’d forgiven his wife!

She was a vicious little monkey
and despite having produced seven mini Normans (all boys,) she had managed to
keep her looks and appearance but at quite a cost.  A cost she could no
longer afford.  The toy boy certainly could not support her on his paper
round and pocket money.  So she was pressurizing Norman for some dosh. 
He really was a canny bloke; she had humiliated him and he knew it was only the
money she was after.  He was adamant she wasn’t getting any!  Big
mistake!

After threats, promises and
pleading she realised it was a no go.  So despite professing her undying
love for him and the kids, she promptly went off to the DHSS and shopped
him.  But that wasn’t enough for Mrs. Norman!  Straight off to the
Sunday papers and a nice little earner.  Think about it, £25K for at least
ten years, that was a big story.

The following week, emblazoned
across the front page of the Sunday papers was a picture of Norman carrying not
one, not two but three huge bags of cement and the headline was ‘Cheating Chancer
Cons Benefits Office.’  Just think what he could have carried if his back
had been okay.

He was done for!  He lost
all his extras and nearly landed in jail.  Strangely enough though, he
became this sort of Robin Hood figure in the town.  Everyone felt sorry
for him and didn’t blame him in the least.  The consensus of opinion was,
rightly or wrongly, if you can get away with it good for you.  And let’s
face it, with seven kids he’d need all that money.

He still drives a nice car . . .

Everyone’s a winner

Racing is an integral part of our
town and the racing fraternity are big business.  Staff and owners from
all the racing stables throughout the country will at some point arrive in Edinburgh.

Most of the pubs in town have a
band of regulars, punters as well as participants, and each meeting was looked
forward to with great anticipation.

Because we were ‘the place to
eat’ we were fortunate that we attracted customers from all sectors.  Most
of the owners and trainers and at some point all of the travelling lads came
through.  Now the travelling lads, especially the head lads, were the ones
to cultivate.  They knew, before they started the engine on the horse box,
which horse was going to win or had a damn good chance.  Over the years we
had had a few good tips and of course a few ‘dead certs.’  But there is
one occasion which will go down in history.