Since The Matapan - our local pub - was taken over by Keith & Di & re- named BECON TREE (about the same time Pavel was born) we've been made welcome with the pram. The Sunday before May Day Bank Holiday is always the poltergeist doppelganger of the morrow, we wheel into the bar & are greeted by a man we've not seen before collecting glasses. He cuts the shape of the tattooed offender & is nice to us. It turns out that Keith's had a heartattack & is resting upstairs, so this guy - a local drinker called Mick - has stepped in to help out. That's a lovely accent he says to Sarah & asks is it Welsh? But Sarah has been talking of Ireland all morn ing, her lilly-green dress an outcrop of the thought process. Mick guides us to a table with a chessboard top. Then comes the tester : he points to Pavel & asks : what's is name then? He puts his palm to his ear for us to repeat, Sarah says : rhymes with travel. Fuckin 'ell he says, warm & in...
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