It was a breezy evening outside The Old Chestnut. A Friday evening. Inside, the locals were encamped in their usual seats, sipping their usual drinks, watching the usual news programmes on the TV behind the bar. Apart from the chatter between an elderly couple in one corner (a well-made up lady called Rose playing cards with a red-faced man called Charles, with grey handlebar moustache, matching sideburns and a checked beige cap), the bar was relatively quiet. Joy Peters, another regular, sat looking into the eyes of her most recent boyfriend (number fifty-seven, according to Jim Stokes, who enviously watched Joy chat up her latest victim… wishing he could be number fifty-eight).

Then, suddenly, Syd Barratt entered. I say, ‘entered’… he practically threw the doors open.

“My sister-in-law’s aunt is dead!” he proclaimed, tearfully. Everything stopped. The locals stared open-mouthed at Syd, waiting for more news. There was none.

“Thank god for that,” Rose muttered to her male friend, turning back to her drink. 
“Rose! How can you be so callous!” Charlie hissed back.
“Well, you never liked her, did you, Charles?”He had to admit that he hated the bitch.
*
The next day, Joy Peters was back at work, cutting and styling hair in her chic salon down by the river – one she’d named ‘Owed to Joy’ (the salon, not the river). The name was suggested to her one night in the pub by a former boyfriend; but he didn’t write it down and she’d misspelled it.  

Her first customer that morning was a regular, one with whom she often shared the local gossip.

“Anything juicy today?” Deirdre asked as she sat facing the stylist in the mirror.
“Well, I can’t say it’s juicy… but I did hear that Syd Barratt’s sister’s aunt is dead!”
Wendy looked puzzled. “Syd’s sister’s aunt?” she repeated.
“That’s what he said.” 
“Then you must mean Syd’s aunt?”
Joy stopped cutting hair and looked up at Deirdre in the mirror. “Oh yeah, sorry! I suppose he was so cut up about it, he didn’t realise what he’d said!”

The two women nodded in agreement, and moved on to the next piece of hot gossip.
*
The next day, at Kinderbright Primary School, Jim Stokes, the head of the school, joined the teachers in the staff-room for morning break. He had some sad news for them all. “I don’t know if anyone has heard… but in case not, I have some sad news. Syd Barratt has suffered a family tragedy”.   

Other conversations suddenly stopped, and everyone turned to look at Jim. Syd was a former teacher at the school, and most staff members knew him very well.
“What happened, Jim?” Carla Nightingale, deputy head, enquired.
“His sister-in-law died suddenly yesterday,” Jim replied.

“Oh, so sorry to hear that Jim… please send him our condolences when you see him next. We must get a card together… and some flowers.”

Music teacher Roger Waters arrived home that evening, deep in thought. Syd Barratt was a very close friend of Roger’s – ever since the time they worked together at Kinderbright Primary. And both being musicians, their friendship led to forming an alt-rock teacher’s band, where Roger played bass and Syd was the songwriter and lead singer. (They called the band ‘The Infractions’, named after the punishments meted out by teachers on the kids at the school when they broke the rules). But Roger was puzzled, and felt rather put out: why hadn’t Syd told him personally about the death?

“You okay Rog?” his wife Judy asked, seeing Roger staring at the floor in the hallway. “Sorry, yes… I’m okay. But I heard at school today that Syd’s sister has died.”  

“What, Karen? Oh, that’s terrible! She couldn’t have been much more than forty… was it an accident?”
“I don’t know. Jim Stokes told us at break today… he didn’t give any details. I can’t understand why Syd didn’t tell me himself… I knew Karen well.” 

The next Friday evening, the regulars were back at the Chestnut. The mood was very sombre. Dave Gilmour, a life-long friend of Syd’s had travelled from the next town as soon as he heard the news about the bereavement.

“I’m really, really sorry to hear about Syd,” his voice was on the point of tears. “I don’t know what to say… we grew up together, went to the local schools, played in the band… I can’t quite believe he’s gone…” He couldn’t hide the quiver in his voice.

“Who’s gone?” The landlord asked.

“Syd Barratt…” Dave replied. “I got the news via the grapevine that he passed away a few days ago. It’s unbelievable… particularly at his age. Life isn’t going to be the same again… all those amazing songs he wrote… I can still hear the passion and love in his voice when he sang ‘Breathe’. I suppose that will be his swansong… the last one he wrote. Sorry, I’m shaking… I can’t help it…”

“I’d like to propose a toast, to Syd…” Charles was on his feet, glass of Port in hand. “I just can’t believe you’ve gone mate… wish you were here.”

“Syd’s not dead! It’s his sister who died!” One person exclaimed.
“His sister? No, it was his sister-in-law!”
“Don’t be daft – it were his aunt that kicked the bucket!” Another corrected.
“What? No-no-no… it was wasn’t his aunt – it was his sister-in-law’s aunt that died!”

Then it went all very quiet, everyone suddenly realising the mistake they’d made,  getting the wrong end of the stick and contributing to major rumour and confusion. Of course, it was Syd’s sister-in-law’s aunt who’d died!

Then the bar door creaked open.
“Hello everyone – sorry for the intrusion… I’m Syd Barratt’s sister-in-law’s aunt…”
The bartender shook his head in disbelief, reaching down behind the bar for something.
“Why are you all looking at me like that?” the stranger said, with a worried look on her face.
“Because you’re supposed to be dead!” Joy Peters exclaimed. 
“And you’ve caused a lot of people a lot of heartache and confusion… people thought you’d passed away!” Charlie added, as the bartender pulled a double-barrelled shotgun out from under the bar and pointed it directly at Syd Barratt’s sister-in-law’s aunt, firing two rounds into her temples.

“Well, she’s dead now,” the landlord observed. “Anyone for another drink?” he smiled.

END.