Poisoning in the Pub, The. Simon Brett

the smoking ban would have on his business? Looks like he got it wrong. For a Monday lunchtime, the place is heaving.’

      Her choice of word was perhaps unfortunate, because at that moment, a pensioner in one of the alcoves rose in panic. Long before he could make it across to the safety of the toilets, his semi-digested lunch spewed in a yellow arc across the floor of the pub.

      It is an instinct among the British people to try to pretend unpleasant things have just not happened, but this one was hard to ignore. The Polish bar manager, Zosia, was quick to fetch a bucket and mop from the kitchen behind the bar and Ted Crisp himself followed her out. The landlord was a large man with ragged hair and beard, dressed in his permanent livery of faded T-shirt and equally faded jeans. He gestured for Zosia to get a move on.

      But before the clean-up operation could begin, there was another casualty. An impossibly thin little old lady with rigidly permed white hair had risen from her seat in another alcove and tottered forward. She was sick too, though not as profusely as the man had been. Something like mucus spilled from the corner of her wrinkled mouth as she slipped slowly to the floor. And lay ominously still.

      Though Jude had no medical qualifications, her work as a healer meant that she knew a lot about the human body and its frailties. So she was quickly crouching beside the stricken pensioner, feeling for a pulse. Ted Crisp looked on in horror as a silence descended on the Crown and Anchor.

      A little old man, surely the woman’s husband, had tottered out of the alcove after her and was looking down at Jude, his rheumy eyes beseeching her not to bring bad news.

      ‘It’s all right,’ said Jude. ‘Her pulse is weak, but it’s definitely there.’

      ‘Thank God,’ said the little old man.

      ‘Maybe she just fainted because of the hot weather …?’ Ted suggested hopefully.

      The husband didn’t buy that explanation. ‘She was right as rain this morning.’

      ‘What did she have for lunch?’ asked Carole.

      ‘The scallops. She insisted on having the scallops.’ He was unaware of the communal intake of breath from other customers who had ordered the same. ‘Bettina always liked seafood. I could never take it myself. Got one of them allergies to all that stuff.’

      Carole and Jude exchanged a look and knew they were both thinking the same. Scallops could all too easily go off in the kind of weather they were having.

      The old man’s eyes once again appealed to Jude. ‘Is Bettina going to be all right?’

      ‘I’m sure she is,’ came the brisk reply, ‘but I think it might be as well to call an ambulance and get her looked at at the hospital.’

      ‘I’ll ring them,’ said Ted, relieved to have something positive to do. After the recent excitements, the pub settled back into some kind of normality. Zosia made quick work of cleaning the floor. The man who had vomited first was helped to the Gents to clean himself up, and soon taken home by his friends. Bettina, whose surname Jude discovered from her husband Eric was Smiley, was picked up and settled into a chair. She hadn’t fully regained consciousness, but mumbled softly to herself. Eric took her thin liver-spotted hand in his. His grip was so tight that he seemed to fear she might slip away from him.

      Gradually, but quite quickly, the Crown and Anchor emptied. Customers who’d ordered other dishes finished them up quickly. Most who had ordered the pan-fried scallops with spinach and oriental noodles just stopped eating. Zosia and her waitresses showed no emotion as they repeatedly asked, ‘May I clear that?’ In every case the answer was yes.

      Carole Seddon had finished her plateful before the vomiting began, and she felt extremely uncomfortable. Her stomach churned. She knew the sensation was probably just psychosomatic, but she still wasn’t enjoying it. Carole had always had a terror of disgracing herself in a public place.

      The ambulance arrived and its practised crew got Bettina Smiley wrapped in blankets and onto a stretcher. They had virtually to prise away her husband’s hand, then gently led him out to accompany her to the hospital.

      An anxious-looking Ted Crisp emerged again from the kitchen just in time to see their departure. Carole and Jude were about the only customers left. Carole looked on edge; Jude’s brown eyes beamed sympathy to the troubled landlord.

      ‘Maybe it wasn’t the scallops,’ she suggested hopefully.

      ‘Bloody shouldn’t be. I’ve used the same supplier for my seafood ever since I’ve had this place. Never had any trouble before.’

      ‘And everything in the kitchen’s OK … you know, from the Health and Safety point of view?’

      ‘Yes, it bloody is! Only had our annual inspection last week. Passed with flying colours. They couldn’t find a single thing to criticize … which always makes them bloody cross. They like to find some little detail to pick you up on.’

      ‘Will you have to report this?’

      ‘Perhaps not, but I’m going to do everything by the book. Since the old girl’s gone to hospital, I should report it under RIDDOR.’

      ‘RIDDOR?’ Jude looked puzzled. Carole looked increasingly uncomfortable.

      ‘“The Reporting of Injuries, Diseases and Dangerous Occurrences Regulations 1995,”’ Ted parroted. ‘And I’ve just called them. Done everything by the bloody book, like I said. Rang through to their Incident Contact Centre.’ He looked even more troubled. ‘But when I did, there was something odd …’

      ‘Excuse me,’ Carole announced suddenly, ‘I must go to the ladies’ room!’ And she rushed off.

      Jude passed no comment on her friend’s disappearance, but gave the landlord a sympathetic grin. It didn’t seem to raise his spirits. ‘You said there was something odd …?’

      ‘Yes. When I got through to the Incident Contact Centre …’

      ‘Hm?’

      ‘They knew about what’d happened. Someone had rung them only minutes before. Less than twenty minutes after the old girl got sick and the authorities had already heard about it.’

      Ted Crisp might have said more, but he was interrupted by the ringing of the phone behind the bar. ‘Crown and Anchor, Fethering,’ he answered automatically. Under the beard his mouth contorted with anger as he responded, ‘No, I bloody haven’t got anything to say to you!’

      He slammed down the phone and looked at Jude. His face showed a mixture of puzzlement and fury as he said, ‘Fethering Observer. Wanted to know if I had any comment to make about the outbreak of food poisoning in my pub.’

      ‘Good heavens.’

      ‘How did they know?’ asked Ted Crisp, almost to himself. ‘How did they know so quickly?’

      TWO

      Jude had hoped she might escape the effects of the scallops, but it was not to be. She had escorted a very wan-looking Carole back to her house, High Tor, and returned to the adjacent Woodside Cottage. Her plan to clear her mind with some yoga exercises was thwarted by the sudden metallic taste of nausea in her throat. Fortunately she just managed to make it to the loo before losing her lunch down the bowl.

      She was sick twice more before deciding that the day was a write-off and going to bed. Once there, she fell instantly into a deep sleep, from which she woke about eight thirty, feeling distinctly more human. She had a hot bath, drank a lot of water and went downstairs. It was still light and the day’s heat stayed in the air. There was not enough breeze to stir the windchimes that hung by her open windows.

      Jude thought about the attack of food poisoning at the Crown and Anchor and reckoned she had got off lightly. The two people who’d actually been sick in the pub had been pretty frail, which was probably why they were affected so quickly. She wondered how many other customers had spent the