FLOGGING A DEAD HORSE

They lived in the cottage next door. They’d been there since they arrived from London after having retired from the Metropolitan Police. They’d bought the old village pub, the White Horse, and had changed it from a quaint old-fashioned boozer into a very popular eatery. On Sundays its carvery was crammed full with families eating what they had been given for £5.99 a head. There were always several roasts to chose from although under the bright orange glare of the hot lamps they all looked pretty much the same. The meat was always grey in colour, always overdone. Well boiled vegetables with lashings of thin brown over spiced gravy were available in the heated tin dishes once punters had been served with the meat. The tariff included a roll and butter and a portion of ice cream (assorted flavours). It was just like school dinner.

As landlord and landlady of the pub, the couple grew in statue, became an active part of the local community and seemed on the face of it to be “good sorts”. They took on a chef, also an ex London bobby, and the business prospered. Value was their unique selling proposition, that and big portions. Their advertisement in the local paper and the parish magazine boasted “Eat like a horse at the White Horse for £5.99.” Soon the pub had to do two Sunday sittings at 12 and 2 to cater for public demand. After their third year of trading they had to extend the premises so as to accommodate the increase in business. The carvery opened for business on Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. It seemed to do a roaring trade at lunchtime and in the evenings. They had hit on a successful formula and without any previous experience, had created quite a major industry in the village. Competitors couldn’t work out just how they managed to out do them. Some tried to compete but quickly lost a hat full. The new owners of the White Horse prospered thanks to their winning formula.

Jean-Pierre commented on the food first of all. He was from rural France; arrived for a long weekend. He insisted on taking us out to the local for Sunday lunch, something we had so far avoided.

“The meat,” he said after a few mouthfuls. “It taste jest like orse.”

We laughed but agreed that the meat did indeed taste “different” but didn’t cause a fuss by complaining. We didn’t want to upset our neighbours after all. Our French visitor insisted on going and having a word with the chef. He in turn must have said something to our neighbours because after that, they didn’t speak another word to us. We used to be fairly civil and exchanged polite pleasantries, complimented them on the luxuriant roses in their front garden, that sort of thing.

It was a new and keen public health inspector that stumbled across their dark secret during one surprise visit to the pub’s kitchen. Most of the meat hanging up in the big freezer was horse. The rest, the smaller cuts, were dog. Further investigations revealed a dubious supply chain from London. What the good customers of the White Horse had been wolfing down with enthusiasm at £5.99 a go was in fact dead Metropolitan Police horse and over cooked German shepherd and Labrador, all past their sell by date as far as police work was concerned. .

As the judge said during his summing up before sending our neighbours down, “You can fill some of the people some of the time.” Like crooks, judges often have a way with words.