December, 1919 – Chapter 9

Welcome to chapter nine of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every week. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 9

He introduced himself as Reginald “but you can call me Reggie” Buckner. He announced on licorice tainted breath that he was here at the behest of the Internal Revenue Service, and would be performing a final inventory. He smelled like musk left to dry on old paper. He smiled like a card shark about to drop a royal flush on an unsuspecting table of players who were all in.

The brewery staff lined up like weary soldiers; Virginia, William, and myself as front line vanguards, scouting out the inspector’s tactical positions. His pacing was methodical and practiced, the deliberate, probably counted steps of a dangerously bureaucratic man who took his job very seriously and liked it very much.

“I know this may be uncomfortable, but if we can simply review what is in stock against your final purchase orders, we can have this done quickly.” Buckner said, flipping through sheets of paper attached to a clipboard. His pencil darted across the page, grating graphite engraving an epitaph on our legal tombstone. “First things firsts, let’s discuss raw ingredients.”

The hired laborers had piled the remaining bags of uncracked malt into a tidy pyramid directly in the middle of the brewery floor. Loose kernels spilled from small tears in the cloth, the sugary life blood of the brewery seeping out through a hundred tiny cuts. Buckner kicked a sack,covering his shiny black shoes in yellowish dust. “Malted barley first. The confirmation slip from your last delivery says you accepted forty five, one hundred pound bags of American two-row barley from Shipley Malting Company. I only count 32 bags. Where are the other 13?”

I spoke up. “We brewed a stock ale two weeks ago. It used nearly twice the malt of our normal recipes.”

“And who are you, boy? I’ll take my information from someone in charge, thank you.” He said, nose turned skyward, as dismissively as possible.

Virginia’s knuckles stretched white. “This is Jack Cooper, sir.” Her voice slashed through the tension in the room, a delicate but deadly axe. “And he owns this brewery.”

Buckner looked down at his papers, then back up at me, then back down at his papers. “This is Jack Cooper?” The condescension fell off his face while incredulity climbed up it. “I’m sorry. I just…I expected someone…older.”

Virginia snapped, defensive and bitter. “Jack’s plenty old enough.” A fire, hard to define as anger or angst, flashed across her eyes.

“No need to get upset, ma’am, I’m just trying to do my job. Anyway, Jack, you were saying about the missing malt?” His tone shifted back to hard and professional, but the subtle change in his body language betrayed embarrassment.

“The stock ale took extra; about 300 pounds worth. We lost a batch of English style barleywine to infection last month, too, which should account for the difference.”

Buckner scribbled something hastily on his paper. “And do you have anything to account for this loss?” He asked, locking his eyes to mine. Grey, cold, probing.

“Nothing on paper,” I said, ” but our logistics manager, William, can verify.” William fidgeted, cracked his knuckles, and looked straight at the floor.

Buckner ran his finger down the paper, stopping abruptly and tapping when he reached William’s name. “Ah, Mr. Johnson. Can you verify?”

William sputtered, his words tripping over his tongue like a drunk on a midnight stumble home. “Er, yes. We brewed with it all. It’s gone.” William could barely make eye contact, and his fidgeting grew more pronounced the longer he stood at attention.

“You seem nervous, Mr. Johnson. Are you not feeling well?” He asked. Virginia’s elbow nudged mine subtly, but noticeably.

“Will cut his hand badly yesterday; I think he’s still shaken about it.” I said, deflecting.

Buckner walked closer to William, and asked to see his hand. Will raised it up, chest high, turning his palm over to show the dark red stains of dried blood on the white linen mummied around his fingers. “What happened? That looks serious.” Buckner said, keep his distance from the bloody hand.

“I…I cut it on the grist mill. There was some sharp metal and I wasn’t pay attention…” Will trailed off.

“I told him he should be resting. He’s afraid of blood. Last year our cooper snapped a hoop on one of the barrels, and it nearly took is arm off. I thought Will was going to faint.” I said, ” Unfortunately, we were all frantic to prepare for your visit, and, like my dad always said, a brewery is a dangerous place to rush.” I nodded at William, and he seems to calm down. A little.

Satisfied, Buckner walked back to the pile of sacks, scribbling more notes. “If Jack can answer the rest of my questions, feel free to go home and rest, Mr. Johnson.” Will looked at me, and I nodded. He quickly made for the door, thanking our dutiful inspector before grabbing his hat and coat and vanishing into the snow globed afternoon.

“He’s an odd one.” Buckner said, looking at the doorway.

“Yea, but he worked for my father for years, and is great at keeping orders straight.” I said. “What’s next?”

The rest of the inspection played out smoothly, all the actors knowing their roles, remembering their lines. The hop leaves, all sticky with yellow powder, were placed into large wooden boxes, and hauled out by two of Buckner’s behatted lackeys. After explaining that our yeast was nearly older than the brewery itself, and that to destroy it would be to destroy a piece of Philadelphian history, Buckner decided to let me take a small bottled culture home, on the one condition that I deliver it to the University of Pennsylvania’s biology department within the week. His men made quick work of the sacks of malt, loading them onto the back of a wooden framed truck, to be hauled away as contraband to warehouses unknown.

I signed the papers. Buckner seemed pleased, and thanked me, on behalf of the US government, for my understanding and cooperation during this period of transition. With a tip of his hat, he said, “I’ve always liked your beer.” He turned and looked at the kettles. “It’ll be sad to see this place turned into a stinking fish den. But I have to do my job. No hard feelings, I hope.”

“None.” I said. “The law is the law.” Buckner seemed very pleased with the obedient nature of my last comment. He turned and left, head down, reviewing his papers one last time.

Virginia grinned at me. I threw a smile back.

Beneath our feet, tucked under some old planks and almost forgotten rusted grates, hid thirteen pristine sacks. Just shy of 650 pounds of American two-row barley.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 8

Welcome to chapter eight of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday (or Thursday, sorry!). Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 8

Blood dripped and slipped through the rollers of the mill. William cradled his hand, wailing inconsolably, like the machine had ripped it clean off. I turned his palm upward to examine the wound, careful not cause any more undue pain. It was an ugly slash, glistening red and slick, but nothing some iodine and fresh bandages couldn’t fix.

“Oh, William, this isn’t so bad. It’s pretty superficial.” I said, half-lying, trying to keep him from panicking.

“I could have lost my hand!” He said, unsatisfied. “That thing is a death trap.” He pointed at the grist mill with his good hand, keeping the other, wrapped in the now crimson and white of his over shirt, close to his chest.

“You’ll live,” I said. “There’s some aspirin in my bag. You should probably take some before the throbbing kicks in.”

He shuffled off, so I continued the disassembly work. When in use, the mill heaved and chunked, its joints creaky and achy from old age and rust. It should have been replaced years ago, but my father had sworn the gap between the rollers was so perfect, he dare not mess with it. In defense of his eccentricity, our grists had been finer and our brew days smoother since he unlocked the magic of the ancient mill, but as I sat with a wrench and screw driver, separating sheets of sharp, worn metal, I realized just how dangerously out of service it had become.

William had made a deal to sell it to a local wheat farmer for much more than it was probably worth, and given that Nate hadn’t paid me after my little mayor-fueled disappearing show, I needed the money. William continued to whimper like pathetic puppy even though the bleeding had stopped. His quiet sobbing summed up the feeling in the brewery, embodied the sinking emotions of everyone having to pack and box up their jobs, their dreams, their lives, all so the now illegal parcel could be inspected and checked off a list by some nameless IRS lackey in the coming days.

From underneath the shoot, with catcher removed, I picked out large bits of old malt, briefly turning on the motor to clear out any smaller, hidden grains. The mill spun violently, twin rollers moving in opposite directions, inhaling soft, fresh, sweet kernels, mangling them, exposing their unprotected insides before unceremoniously dumping them onto the floor.

But without that brutal journey through and transformation at the maw of a many-toothed monster, the malt would never fulfill a greater destiny, never start the great cycle of conversion and consumption, of birth and decay, of disparate parts coming together to make a greater whole. My father always extolled yeast as the veritable mother of all brewing, but to me, a beer’s real life began at the mill.

Virginia moved silently, like a cat trying to avoid detection. The purple-black under her eye had faded to mottled yellow and brown. She’d come in early and said nothing to me, scouring the inside of the mash tun as if we were going to brew. The rhythmic shick and slide of her coarse sponge on the stainless steel played a background beat to the rest of our work, a somber melody of shuffling sacks and tired sighs. George made no appearances.

As I wrenched loose the bolt holding one of the rollers in place, Virginia passed behind me, moving towards the fermentation tanks. My nerves stood at full attention, sending a shivery salute down my spine when my nose caught the waft of her shampoo.

“Going to be hard to brew without a mill.” She said, an ethereal whisper dissipating into the cold air.

I turned to respond, but she’d already moved out of earshot. I figured after that night, after George had discovered us and threatened us, that she would have given up this crazy crusade. But apparently I was wrong. Always underestimating. Never quite finding that rarefied wavelength where Ginnie buzzed so beautifully with life. Her brown mop bobbed back and forth as she scrubbed.

William caught me staring.

“It’s OK, Jack.” He said, much calmer. “I know you’re both young, but it’s pretty easy to see what’s going on here.”

I looked at William, stoicism giving away to boyish embarrassment. “It doesn’t matter anyway.” I said, trailing off.

“Because of George?” William plopped down next to me, right hand firmly squeezing left. “He’s her father, sure, but she’s allowed to make her own decisions. She’s nineteen. No longer bound to his direction, legally.”

I knew George didn’t give a damn about the law. “Thanks, William.” I said, forcing a smile.

“No one knows what’s going to happen. This new law might only last a year or two. Or it might go on forever.” He said, looking across at Virginia. “My point, and the thing you should be focused on, is that we don’t have much certainty to cling to these days. When there’s a sure thing, and you can feel the truth of it so deep in your bones, you should probably go for it. Consequences be damned.”

His words swam around my brain like an Olympian doing laps. I’d allowed my December days to fill to the brim with anger, regret, crippling self-pity, meanwhile ignoring all the potential beauty of a brand new January.

After a brief silence, he nudged my arm, and asked for help up. Once back on his feet, he hugged me, announcing he was going home to have his wife, Mary, nurse his hand. Soon after William, the last of the day workers we’d hired said their goodbyes with tipped hats, leaving the two of us alone, again.

“I’m going to tell William not to sell the mill.” I said, clanging my wrench on the metal still attached to the hopper. “I’ll find a way to make money. Maybe more hours at the paper.” The declaration met only with silence, so I walked over to the tank Ginnie had cloistered herself in like a spring robin on her nest.

“I ruined the perfect gap,” I said, waving the loose roller in front of my face, “but I guess that’s OK. I’ll set it up myself this time.”

Virginia climbed out of the fermentation tank and stood in front of me. “Good.” She said, wrapping one arm around my waist. “And I agree.”

“Agree with what?” I asked.

“William.” She whispered, resting her head against my chest. The sun hovered halfway down the horizon, throwing its rippled twin across the blue and green sprawl of the Delaware as the planet, and my heart, embraced the coming night.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 7

Welcome to chapter seven of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 7

The wind whipped, fierce and angry, in random blusters that felt like ice-cold fists to my face. I’d known some cold winters in the city, but the weather now seemed crueler, more foreboding than a typical New Year’s eve in Philadelphia. I shrugged the wool of my coat up higher, to cover some of the exposed skin of my neck. I hadn’t had time to grab my scarf.

Mayor Moore plodded beside me. Behind, Berman lurked, collar up and hands in pockets, hat pulled down to the point where his eyes looked like a snake’s. Moore’s mustached lip curled ever so slightly up every time another gust cut across our path; the only sign he felt the cold at all. Nate would be furious I was gone, but who was I to deny two such lofty and prominent branches of the Philly tree of law?

We walked in silence for some time, Berman herding us at cross streets, leading us to destination unknown. We crossed the Schuylkill on 3rd, made a left on North 20th, and then sauntered past a ghostly, snow-dusted Logan’s Square. No one in their right mind would be in the park on a day like this. No one except the mayor, a detective, and some poor confused kid, that is. Just as I’d had enough, and was about to demand some information, we stopped at the bleach-white steps of the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter & Paul.

“Let’s get out of the cold, shall we?” Moore said, lithely bounding up the steps. Berman lingered behind, the ever loyal sheep dog. I couldn’t refuse, and my bones wouldn’t mind the warmth.

The towering stone of the cathedral swallowed us up like spiritual down, wrapping me in soft, yellow, candle-borne glow and subtle waft of incense. I’d never been much for religion but always loved the churches themselves; such grandeur and sophistication, equal parts welcoming and isolating. A priest shuffled near the altar, arranging a piece of purple cloth, while another disappeared into the under croft through a tiny side door. The church hummed with latent energy, drowning out the whispers of the two docents near the entrance.

“I always come here when I need to think.” Moore said, leaning closer to me. He moved down the aisle towards the front of the room, gently waving, coaxing me to follow. Berman leaned against a pillar, but didn’t remove his hat or coat. I felt nervous but safe, somehow protected by the sanctity of the building, if nothing else.

“Father Donovan knows me well. My family has been coming here for decades.” Moore said, kneeling and quickly crossing himself before leaning back against the pew. “Do you go to church, Jack?”

“No…well not for a long time.” I said. “My mother was raised Anglican, but my father always said he was too busy to waste a Sunday morning away from the brewery.”

“A shame,” Moore whispered, “no man should ever be too busy for his spirit.”

I took a bite of the irony in his words. “My father was never too busy for his spirit. I’d say it was his spirit that drove him. He was just never one for genuflecting at someone else’s altar.”

“Hmm, having met him, I can believe that.” Moore turned around and looked at Berman. He hadn’t even shifted his stance. “I’m sorry about him,” Moore said, “He’s harsh, but effective. I needed to talk to you, and in private.”

The oddness of the situation made my head swim. Why would a man who directly worked for President Roosevelt need to talk to a seventeen year old nobody from Philadelphia? The dimness and heavy warmth of the church made the situation feel surreal, a dream Nate would snap me awake from any minute when he found me asleep on my desk. But Moore refused to dissipates into nothingness, and Berman refused to go with him.

“I know you’ve been following McGuire, and I know McGuire’s been looking into my office and associates.” He tilted his head backwards, starting straight up at the bas-relief dotted dome. “I know you’re looking for some closure, Jack. Your father was a good man, and the way he died was…regrettable.”

My mind dropped its clutch, shifting from confusion to anger. “Regrettable?” I nearly yelled, rippling an echo all the way down the nave and back. The priest at the altar turned, demanding silence with a steely look. I nestled back into the cushion of the pew, heart pounding, rage rising. “He was murdered.” I whispered, though gritted teeth.

“No, he wasn’t,” Moore said confidently. “It was an accident. The sooner you and McGuire accept that and stop hounding my colleagues, the sooner we can all move past this mess.” He turned his head, settling his square-framed eyes on mine. “You have to drop this and focus on taking care of your mother. I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to you, or your family, or even your livelihood, Jack.”

My brain fumbled, and I dropped my words.  Moore raised his arm, beckoning Berman over. The sullen trenchcoat obliged, slowly.

“Berman will take you back to the Gazette,” he said, crossing his hands on his lap. “This is the last I want to hear about any of this. You do not want to see me again, understand?”

I forced a nod, as Berman grabbed the back of my coat and pulled me out of the pew. He jerked me back down the aisle and out the door, into a gentle flurry of the year’s final snow.

“Get lost, Cooper.” Berman all but threw me down the church stairs. “You know where you stand now, and it’s on the wrong side,” he said, knocking my shoulder as he walked past. “I’ll be watching you.”

I spit on the street behind him, but he didn’t turn back. The wind threw itself at my face yet again, nearly freezing the tears welling in the corners of my eyes. The church bells tolled, on and on and on, out into the coming storm.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 5

Welcome to chapter five of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here. 

Chapter 5

“Are you insane?”

My voice bounded and then rebounded off the tinny walls of the malt warehouse like it was playing tag with itself. Virginia had asked me to stay late and help her organize the malts for the upcoming inspection, promising George we could handle it and all but demanding he go home. It felt strange to be alone with her when the kettles were cold and dormant, but it was hard to refuse her when she got her heart and mind set on an idea.

“Maybe. But what else are we going to do with this place?” she said, holding her arms up and spinning around. “I’ve been thinking about this since they first took that nonsense before Congress. We’d never be suspected of anything, given your age.”

I shrugged, unsure what to say. She kicked a sack of malt, sending a puff of dust out across the floor. “I thought you’d be more into it. You’re the perfect cover,” she said, bumping her shoulder into mine, “well you and the fish.”

A simple plan. A stupid plan. But a plan, where I’d thought of nothing. The smell of the fish would mask the smell of malts and hops, but continuing to brew, right here, under the nose of investigators, seemed crazier than trying to give a rabid wolf a bubble bath. “Aren’t you worried?” I said.

“About what?” She jumped up onto the miniature pyramid of sacks. “I’ve been reading about the Caribbean rum runners,” she said, looking half a pirate herself in the subtle glow of the moon. “They got away with it by being sneaky. So we brew at night, when no one can see the steam. You keep working at the paper,” she said, nodding inclusively at me, “and make a formal statement that the brewery is complying with the federal mandate to close down. We give the fish monger a cut, and he says nothing. We roll the finished barrels and bottles down the docks, and load them onto a boat.”

The confidence in her voice resounded, filling the entirety of the space. She stood atop that malty throne like nothing in the world could touch her, like she was the queen of the quaff, the baroness of bootlegging. For a fleeting second I wanted to jump up there with her, grab her, kiss her, throw all my inborn caution to the winds of illegal fate. But I hesitated. My mother’s rationtionality ran thick in my marrow, and my bravery scurried off into the shadows.

“What about George?” I asked, mining my brain for any excuse to temper her. “He’ll catch us way faster than the police, and, um, how exactly are we going to brew without him?”

“Leave my dad to me,” she said, as if she had any control over George. “His pride won’t let him go without work for long. Soon enough he’ll be too busy to keep up with what I’m doing. If I’m bringing in money, he’s not likely to care where it came from. As for the brewing, you and I have been doing this long enough to make a few batches ourselves.”

I shrugged again. “It all sounds pretty wild, Ginnie, but,” my voice dropped. “Why?” I turned and look around at the kernels of malt strewn near the mill. “If the government wants to ban alcohol, that’s what they’re going to do. We can find other work, and move onto something else.”

Her expression shifted from conviction to dejection. She clambered down from her makeshift throne and over to me. Taking my hand, she guided me back into the main room of the brewery, to the rows of fermenter, the gleaming kettle, the maze of pipes like the nervous system of the brewery.

“Why?” she whispered. “This is why. Your grandfather built this place, and your father made it his life. This yeast soaked mess is our home, Jack. We break the law so we don’t break our spirits.”

She ran her hand along the kettle. “I don’t know anything or anywhere else, really.” I locked my eyes to hers in a brown and green tango of romantic shyness. “I don’t know anyone else, either.” She moved in closer, putting one arm around my back and resting her head in the nook of my shoulder. “This place is my everything, and I can’t just let it disappear like it never existed.” I hugged her, relishing the closeness.

“OK.” I said.

“OK?” She looked up at me.

“But we take it real slow. And give it all up at the first sign of trouble. And don’t drag anyone else into it unless we absolutely have to.” I said, trying to build in some insurance. “Deal?”

“Deal!” She threw both arms around my neck. I thought, as her face moved near mine, that she was going to kiss me, but she instead dropped her head next to mine, filling my mouth and nose with a bushel of sweet smelling hair.

“What the hell do you two think you’re doing?” a voice growled from near the main doors. Even George’s shadow, that massive creeping silhouette, seemed angry. You could almost smell the whiskey in his words. “I leave you two alone for a minute and this shit happens. I should have suspected it. Go home, Jack, before I take you there myself.”

“George, we were just…” I said.

“I don’t want to know.” he said, almost sounding disgusted. “I’m sure it’s Virginia’s fault anyway. Always with the boys.” He stomped further into the brewery, eyes red and glossy. I could feel Virginia tensing against me, bracing herself for the coming onslaught.

“Dad, it’s Jack. We’ve known each other forever. Let’s just go home.” she said, trying to plead with the man behind the drunk.

“No. He’s not the same old Jack. Andrew made sure of that when he left the brewery to him, not me.” His words slurred slightly, like his tongue was caught in a fishing net.

I stepped forward, putting myself between father and daughter. “George, I didn’t choose how this worked out, it just did. Don’t blame me or Ginnie.” George dominated the space, looming at least a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than me.

“I’ll blame who I want, boy.” The emphasis on the last word hovered in the air, a poisonous cloud of hate and anger. “Now move. I need to discipline my overly familiar daughter.”

“No.” I said.

George spoke next with his fist. A quick jab dropped me to my knees, ribs aching, air rushing out of my lungs. I tried to recover, but couldn’t move or catch my breath. George pulled me up by my hair.

As he pulled his fist back, knuckles white with rage, breath reeking, ready to single-handedly put me to bed, a sharp gunshot split the night in two.

To be continued…

December, 1919 – Chapter 2

Onto and into the second chapter of “December, 1919″, a serialized novel written by Oliver Gray. New chapters will be published every Wednesday. Links to all published chapters can be found here.

Chapter 2

I’ve always likened the brewery to a newsroom; a teaming hive of lives all running about on singular errands, but working towards the same ultimate goal. But where the newsroom housed literal lives, men in ties making phone calls and attacking paper with pen, the brewery overflowed with the sensation of life, pungent yeasts procreating, malt melting into sugary wort, nature allowing us to ever so briefly throw a bridle over its power. I’d spent most of my youth in that warehouse off of Market street, not so much helping as observing. My dad tried to instill a sense of work ethic in me, but there’s only so much seriousness a ten-year-old can stomach. Darting between copper kettles, across grated floors, over the new woven linen hoses, I watched men – no – titans, impossibly large and ribboned with muscle, heave bags of malt. They towered over me, sweaty, menacing, rough-hewn and dangerous, until they flashed me a smile. Sometimes, father would scoop a tiny bit of cracked malt into my hands as an odd, but welcome treat.

Nothing had physically changed, and the kettles still steamed their work into the cold morning. My father’s ghost hadn’t found its way back here yet, apparently, and his normal spot, next to the brew log, looked shadowed and sad. The boil bubbled subdued and doleful; even the birds who normally chirped and wrestled over strewn grain sang some subtle sorrow. The brewery itself, the building and all the equipment my dad has poured his life into, was in mourning.

Will spotted me first. “My boy, oh my dear boy. I’m so glad you came. You didn’t have to, you know. We can all take care of this place until you’re ready.” he said, clearly trying to be gentle.

“No, it’s fine,” I said, “I needed to get away.”

William turned and ushered me onto the brewery floor. He waddled, his knees unsure, and occasionally reached down to pull up the belt that was desperately trying to slip off of his huge belly. What he lacked in physical coordination, he made up for with wit and business savvy. “We’ve still got several orders to fill. Dobbin’s on 9th needs another barrel, but we’ll be late on our orders for Petsworth” he said, trailing off as he looked upward at the rays bouncing through the skylights.

A voiced boomed from the catwalk near the grain hopper, “Not that any of that will matter in a few weeks!” To those who didn’t know him, George looked frightening. A burst pipe and a fist of steam had badly burned the side of his face five years ago, and left his right eye milky and dead. He towered too, over six feet, built like some mythological hero. Father joked that George was descended from Hercules. “So, Jack, I guess you’re it now?” he said, venom sneaking into every word.

“Oh nevermind him,” said William, slightly under his breath, “before the war, he’d thought your father would leave him in charge, is all. I’m sure you’ll work together to get this mess sorted.” This mess. Now it was my mess. Twenty-three states had twisted closed the hydrants of free-flowing booze before the US had trenched into Europe, and now, even the capital had pulled the plug on any form of distillation. In part thanks to a dozen or so politically smart and stubborn brewers in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania had stayed sane, and our brewery had survived the initial drought. But that “nonsense about the 18th” (as my father called it), stood signed, ratified, a hydra snarling its prohibitionist and protestant heads at our entire operation. It was only a matter of time before the gavel cracked, and the statist fingers of the law, supported by the Anti-Saloon League and the Temperance Union, crept in to ruin the business.

My mess. The only conversation I’d had with father about the coming tide amounted to, “don’t worry about it,” which was proving decidedly unhelpful now. I’d overheard him talking about using the brewery to make “near beer,” exploiting a loophole to skirt under the listed alcohol limits but still make beer and turn some, if much lesser, profit. There wouldn’t be much else to do with a brewery in a world where alcohol was illegal, aside from dismantling the copper and selling the space to some cannery or fishmonger.

“It’s not just that.” George had come down from the catwalk and now stood in front of us, massive arms locked across his chest. “He’s too young.”

I didn’t argue. This past October had been my seventeenth. While standing in for father during the war had tempered my boyish immaturity, I was terrified at the prospect of being in charge. I was my father’s son, especially temperamentally, but I had a fair share of my meek mother rattling around in my genes, too.

“I know, George. I need your help,” I said, stifling tears. The last thing I needed was to cry in front of him. He slapped a huge hand on the back of my head and pulled me forward until our foreheads were touching.

“Your father was a brother to me. I can’t change his decision now, but I can and will tell you what’s best for this brewery.” he said. I could see the pain in his one good eye. As tough as he was, the loss had lodge a knife into his heart. William batted at George. He let go of my head before nearly crushing me in a hug.

“We do need some sort of plan.” William said, “none of us quite know what Andrew was going to do.”

“We keep brewing.” The newest voice lilted in sharp opposition to William’s shrillness. Brow covered in malt dust, plaid sleeves rolled up, walnut hair tucked up and back, Virginia appeared from behind the kettle like a Venus just emerged from the fermentation tank. “We do what we do,” she said, a playful madness flashing across her green eyes.

“We brew. We mash and boil and ferment until they come in here with guns and force us to stop.”

To be continued…

Mashing in Masham (A Tour of Theakston Brewery)

Against a backdrop of rows of ivy-covered cottages, tiny winding Yorkshire roads lined by impossibly close hedges, and the idyllic contrast of bleach white cricket uniforms on verdant green, that unmistakable pungent waft of yeast lets you know there’s a brewery nearby. You can see it from the road, but unmarked and austere it looks like any old industrial remnant in a small English town; one square, stone smokestack rising up like a Gulliver among Lilliputians.

You have to search a bit. First for a place to park in the crowded but lively square of Masham town, second for a sign that actually points you in the direction of the brewery. Down a side road, past some private residences. Through a stone alley with a slowly rusting black iron gate. Under a long pergola shaded in fragrance by thousands of budding, nascent hops. Finally to a little patio that welcomes you, cheerfully, to the “Black Bull in Paradise.”

Tucked back in a cozy alcove of the town like a beery nest for migratory drinkers, there’s an old cooper’s house grinning the same stone and wood smile (plus some minor dental work) it has had on its face since 1827. To the right, a darkened doorway leads into a room with a low ceiling, exposed beams, and a rough stone floor. To the left there’s an impromptu beer garden, framed neatly by a rainbow menagerie of empty casks (not kegs!), all awaiting their filled fate.

A brief stroll through a surprisingly stocked gift shop and past two green-clad employees, will drop you into the quaintest of pubs, half ripped from a Tolkien novel, half planted firmly in reality, all the English whimsy a beer-minded American could dream of. This is no modern, urban American tap house; only 6 pulls line the bar with perfect parallel panache, each connected to a classic beer engine, with nary of molecule of carbon dioxide to be found in the entire building. You overhear a patron mention malt between sips of his Black Bull Bitter; a cheery woman at the end of the bar waxes brewlific about the
protein of two-row barley, and how to combat inevitable haze. Her vocabulary has all the hallmarks of a brewer, so you gently inject yourself into the conversation. Lynne. She’s not a brewer, but your tour guide.

Lynne leads the small group, six plus your party of five, back under the hoppy pergola, down a different side alley, past freshly painted red windows and doors. As she walks she talks, giving a brief history of the nearly two hundred year old brewery, describing the founding, sale, merger, and eventually reacquisition of the facilities to bring it back “under old management” in 2003. It’s impossible to ignore the stark difference of the building – and its history – when compared to the contemporary breweries you’re used to, State-side.

Her green shirt like a green light to explore the premises, Lynne leads you up some worn stairs to a room piled high and wide with bags of Simpsons Malt. A large pulley-powered conveyor lifts the fifty pound sacks to the top floor of the building; the first in many steps to use gravity (not pneumatics) to move and brew beer in the classic tower-style brewery. Several winding red staircases later and you’re at the very top, in a room that smells like Sunday morning; toasted bread and sweet cereal. The mill cracks the grain at the apex so that it can be easily passed into the lauter tun, one room away and about 5 feet down. Before leaving, Lynne describes all the ingredients – from the pale and crystal to the Bramling Cross plugs. Each in the group takes turn cracking the malt between their teeth. Some smile at the surprise sweetness, others cringe after crunching too hard on some astringent roasted barley.

You stop at the sadly empty lauteur tun. It’s a behemoth, ringed by cast iron, topped with a braced and riveted wooden lid. Lynne explains that it’s almost original, and the cast iron bowl only had to be replaced once in 187 years of brewing. The wooden top, subject to hours and days and years of hot mashing, hasn’t managed the same longevity. Across the open room but one platform down, between two catwalks, the copper kettle gapes its maw at you, like it’s yawning out of boredom from not having any wort to boil. When you look back again, it’s physically unchanged, but this time it looks like it’s laughing, grinning, very pleased with itself that it gets to make beer soon, and you don’t.

Without much else to show, Lynne’s green shirt descends again, this time pointing out the tubes and valves that carry the wort from the kettle onwards, to the “basement” of the brewery. This basement turns out to actually be on the ground floor (but still lower than the kettle) where like massive pans of rising bread, the beer ferments in open top containers. You resist the urge to dive into the feet-deep krausen froth, but flash Lynne a cheeky smile. She laughs, like she can read your mind. As she moves the tour forward, you sneak into a side room to admire the neatly lined up samples of various beers; quality assurance turned art, accidentally.

Finally gravity’s natural decline brings you to the logistical heart of the brewery, where some more familiar processes and equipment greet you with shining brilliance. But while the stage may look the same, the actors play different roles; where an American brewery worker protects and primes kegs with shields of C02, these casks are filled with fresh, uncarbonated beer, giving them a shelf life of a few weeks, not a few months. The casks look fatter, jollier than their American counter parts, with a round hole that must be plugged and hammered to keep the beer inside from the harsh oxygen outside. The full casks travel down a conveyor to awaiting trucks, who, if everything goes to pubby plan, will return, empty, to the brewery in fewer than thirty days.

Back in the Black Bull, Lynne lets you sample the products of the mashing Masham marvel you just toured, pulling third pints into branded glasses, letting the creamy head settle, then explaining the recipe behind each. A pale, subtly citrus wheat beer plays guest this month, mainly in celebration of the large bicycle ride that passes through Yorkshire each summer. A roasted barley number called “Smooth Dark – Extra Cool” is not very cold compared to American beer, but that hardly matters as your head swims in the delicate balance of coffee, chocolate, and sweet grain. The rest of the line up echoes English brewing tradition; heavy malt melodies with very, very subtle hop accompaniment, smooth, low alcohol, all approachable, none too challenging for even a novice palate. You try to pick a favorite, but can’t really, because they’re all so exotic when put head-to-head against the 7% ABV, aggressively hopped IPAs of home. Each is very good, and you half-plan how to get a cask past those pesky TSA agents on your trip home.

Noting your fascination and legitimate interest, Lynne lets you pull some pints. She invites you back behind the bar, something you’ve never done before (especially not in a brewery taproom in England), and gives you a quick tutorial on the “two hard pulls” needed to first set the head, then finish filling the glass. The engines feel substantial and heavy, even sticky, and each satisfying pull connects the muscles in your arm to the beer itself, makes you feel like you earned that beer, didn’t just have some forced gas rush through a line and dump it into the glass for you.

You don’t really want to leave. There’s something in the whimsy, in the deliberate, old-fashioned methods that speak to you, remind you that every pint you sip carries with it ancient tradition. You thank Lynne, who oddly thanks you back, and make your way for the door. Before you leave, you grab two souvenirs – a pair of half-pint glasses with the Theakston logo printed on the side. The rules of the airline may not allow you to check a full cask of beer, but you’re pretty sure they’ll be OK with you carrying your memories on, 10 ounces at a time.

See below for a full gallery of the brewery tour.

Literature and Libation Let Loose: Heavy Seas Brewery

The folks at Heavy Seas allowed me some intimate camera time with their brew kettles, bottling lines, and the impressive “hop canon.” This is the result: