The Local Tavern
- Jun 4, 2025
- 4 min read
Updated: Dec 2, 2025
By Sete Cohen
In the busy market town of Barnet in North London, people live a simple life. Working in a mix of local and emerging industries, they are content. 'The Local Tavern' is the place where friends meet up for a drink and a chat about the week's events. And men enjoy their last moments of freedom before enlisting. Not knowing if they would ever return to the place they call home; to be with their loved ones; and to meet their children for the first time.
1914...
Headlines...
'4 August 1914: King George V Declares War on Germany'
Western Europe under threat of invasion.
National honour in Britain at risk.
Crowds cheer with fervor.
Barnet grieves.
Surge in prayer.
"Through the silence of the land each day,
the echoes of the voices as they pray."
...
Dinner is always at the same time. In synchrony with the seven o'clock wireless telegraphy, as everyone is anxious to hear what the Right Honourable Earl of Oxford and Asquith has to say.
"Outbreak of World War I."
"Men 18 to 41 needed!"
"It is a matter of honour."
Enlisting.
Private Reggie Pharr, who is twenty years old, joins the Middlesex Regiment.
He is to inherit the Tavern when he returns. His family is so proud of him. They want to give him a token of their appreciation.
And he dreams of a better life with his new wife Agnes who is pregnant with their first child.
His family has the deeds. In a safe place. To be formally registered. Ready for his return. Ready for the pub to be passed down to him. ... When the time is right...
Headlines...
"15 Million Killed in the Line of Duty."
The family enquires about Reggie and receive sad news.
"Missing in action. Presumed dead."
"In the Western Front in France."
Reggie is posthumously awarded a medal for bravery. His photograph hangs on the wall in the pub. Taking pride of place, as he is held in high esteem.
Agnes gives birth.
And when she is ready to become the landlady, the deeds are nowhere to be found.
Reggie’s photograph disappears!
Agnes becomes destitute.
Alone with her child.
A single mother.
In a man's world.
But they survive. ... as she marries an older gentleman, George, who looks after them both. ... Agnes and daughter Regina.
...
The new landlord provides evidence of ownership to HM Land Registry and claims 'The Local Tavern'.
No questions asked.
Nothing to declare.
Sometimes, internal walls exhibit cracks, ready to burst at any moment. Twitching curtains and flickering lights after closing. Many describe the silhouette of a person. A vision of mysterious moments. The taste of burnt matches blended with the sound of 'Ethereal'. Unsettling and conflicting. Yet alluring and inviting.
What could this all mean?
The happenings attract attention and everyone wonders what lies beneath, as the atmosphere becomes eerie. It is as if there are secrets hidden within the chapters of time itself. Refusing to stay silent. Like lingering forces which cannot be explained.
People report whispers. Moving objects. Visions in the mirrors. A hovering shadow in the darkness. And everyone agrees that if they listen closely, they can almost imagine the sound of the call to action from The Middlesex Regiment. Like a legend from times gone by, coming to life!
Hauntings! Spooks! How exciting!
No one really cares. Enjoying life. A pint or two with their friends. Nothing to worry about. They raise their glasses. And crack a joke or two...
And then one day it wasn't so funny anymore...
Who is laughing now?
...
1974...
The landlord's family is not amused.
Has Private Pharr come back?
To claim his rightful place?
He would be eighty years old.
Had he lived of course.
Talk of hauntings continue, which makes the pub all the more popular for people. Business is thriving. The landlord's grandsons exaggerate, calling on the spirits from history to reveal themselves. So many of them!
Marcus Clinch.
Augustus Flowers.
Jason Marriott.
Wilfred Salt.
Terrence Clutterbuck.
Jonathan Ravenscroft.
Jonas Garrett.
But why don't they mention Private Pharr?
If walls could speak, what would they say?
Beneath the slabs.
Within the attic.
Strange, but everyday a homeless man is seen. He stares. He cries. He holds his head. As if he wants to remember. The stranger in the corner of the street. Down on his luck. Down on his knees. Is this a coincidence?
A cruel twist of fate. Not a penny to his name. Clothes in tatters. Empty pockets. Holding a torn bag with worldly possessions. Aging frowns of hardship and despair. Perhaps hoping that some kind stranger would smile.
Hungry and cold.
Must be yearning for a cup of tea.
The stranger in a corner of the street. The one who never speaks. But I can hear his silent whispers. They penetrate my inner peace. He observes. He contemplates. He stares into oblivion.
I see him there. Floating from one side of the road to the other. I feel his pain.
Did he choose this life or did this life choose him?
A few coins in a cup from a passerby, who took pity.
But did not notice his humanity.
The aroma of life's blood, sweat and tears.
Overpowering.
Invisible.
Untouchable.
Is he really here? Will he return to a park bench tonight? After I am long gone. And tucked up warm in my bed.
Intrigued by him, I drop a coin into his plastic cup.
He looks at me and then he covers his face with both hands.
But why has his face turned red?
And then I see the resemblance.
He looks like me.
I have seen him somewhere before.
In photographs.
In a gold locket.
Handed down by my grandmother.
My mother never takes it off.
He looks younger than she is now.
Has he returned?
From the halls of injustice.
Where ‘Fate’ once failed him.
In ‘Word’ and ‘Deed’.
And now he has come back to claim his rightful place.
From the Archives of lost souls.
So who was the man presumed dead all those years ago?
Perhaps his family are still searching for him.
Lost in the pages of history.
Waiting. ...
To receive his medal for bravery.
Posthumously!
For his certificate of death to be recorded.
And to be laid to rest.
As Private Pharr comes home at last.
Private Pharr.
My grandfather.
Written by Sete Cohen Published 4 June 2025.
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