Mike Dixon

David checked that everything was secure and followed
him into the bar. It was like stepping back into the pioneering
days.
„Don‟t you think it‟s great?‟
„Yeah!‟ David had to agree.
„Take a look at that.‟ Tim pointed to a frieze of paintings
that ran round the walls. It depicted a line of revelers in
party dress – men in dinner jackets, girls with the distinctive
hairstyles of the 1920s. Legs flying, arms waving,
short skirts flapping, they looked as if they were having a
great time.
The elderly barman saw Tim‟s enthusiasm.
„That was painted when I was a nipper.‟
Tim rocked back on his barstool and contemplated the
painting.
„The fella who done that was a real professional.‟
„My oath! He was!‟ the old man replied. „I remember
him. He worked amazing quick once he got going.‟
„Yeah,‟ Tim nodded. „His lines have got a great flow to
them.‟
„Every one of those people up there is real,‟ the barman
said. „He painted the leading personalities in the town.‟
„You mean the important people?‟
„No. I mean the people who mattered. The people who
gave the place a bit of life.‟ His face dropped. „They‟re all
gone now but some years ago, when there was still a few
of „em left, another painting was commissioned.‟
He pointed to a second, smaller bar.
„They were all gathered together over there and another
was done, this time in color.‟
David glanced across to the other bar. On the wall a
group of elderly men stared back surrounded by glasses of
beer. They didn‟t look greatly different from the men
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