Annabelle Loon and His Winning Horse – A Not So Tall Tale From the Raven in Bath

Every day feels like a quiet day at the Raven when you’re a regular. On holiday weekends the tourists flood in for a pint of local ale and that’s when Paul and Andy and Little Kev might complain about the chatter, but on your average weekday it’s a leisurely state of affairs, and they are as much a fixture of the pub as the walnut wood bar and the old pump taps that pour Raven Gold and Raven Dark. Visitors to Bath stroll in from every corner of the world to take a moment away from touring the abbey or the Roman bath, and delight for a half hour or so over a half pint and maybe order one of the kitchen’s signature pies with a side of mushy peas, but for regulars, a stop in at the Raven is an all-day affair.

Mickey the bartender, with his long hair and tattoos, passed me a few tacky brochures describing the Raven’s longstanding history in Bath as a free house – meaning it was not tied to any brewery – and its stature as a worthy stop for visitors. It is hard to say what it is that makes a pub like the Raven so special only that it is not the kind of place you are likely to find in North America but is part of the fabric of society of English culture. There are no noises but what the patrons make, no TVs or electronic gaming machines to distract, they make a point of stating that they are not a wine bar nor do they serve wine, and there is no stereo playing music so loud making it impossible to sustain a conversation. A pub like the Raven is a modern English equivalent of the old Roman forum – which is somewhat poetic given Bath’s deep Roman roots. But what no brochure could ever rightly describe are the colourful cast of characters that make the pub truly what it is – a home. And there certainly would be no mention in any brochure about the Raven, or of Bath for that matter, about Annabelle Loon.

“This one’s a winnah!” he cried out entering the bar on that cool grey Friday. “This is the one lads, I goh’it, roit eeyah!”

“What’s that then?” Gary asked.

“Havva wee look at that one, Gare! Bootiful she is then. Too-eer-ow, nevah ran eefore reewy, the odds on is a nine o’ two, which means this lil’ filly is a long for’ee.”

Annabelle Loon motions over to Mickey behind the bar and asks for the usual.

“Where’s that then?” Paul asks.

“Chepstow. Seven thuuuur’ee!”

“For’ee ‘o one then? That ye can do, yeah. Aiew take a runnuh on a two-eer-ow wiv a wong odd ‘gainsuh odds on. Don’ take nuffin reewy.”

“As right! And, aiw taiw yoo, I got meself a big ol’ bindah, roit, thik ike that, yinoit ‘min, names of errey too-eer-ow in suvern England nevah dunna. This one eh! Stephens a trainah, and Liam Jones a’ i’ whip, see. That’s a reew pedigree roi ‘eh. A winnin’ pedigree.”

Annabelle Loon thrusts out a forceful vertical index finger to emphasize his point.

“No dou’ a team as at’ an’ fair odds, it’s wurf it,” Paul adds.

Annabelle Loon is the most forceful character in the pub looking every regular in the eye as he discusses the horses and the seven-thirty at Chepstow but he’s lost the attention of most everyone. Margaret has dismissed him altogether, and Mickey behind the bar is busy helping her complete a crossword puzzle. Andy is back at his word search, Little Kev has grabbed one of the seasonal employees to fetch his prized petanque set, and the tourists can barely make heads or tails of what Annabelle Loon is talking about or why he’s making such a fuss in the first place.

Gary has a clear shared interest in the horses and keeps Annabelle Loon engaged in the conversation. Paul pipes in with a few odds and ends from time to time if for no other reason than he has nothing else but the sights and sounds of the bar to grab his attention. I’m deep in my pie and gravy and mushy peas and Annabelle Loon is reminding everybody about all the details of his winning horse.

“You see roit, it’s been rainin’ aw day up theh an’ ittiw be rainin’ aw day umorrah, they may pull ‘un, yinoit ‘min? Heezuh sturdeh wuneh! Reewy foin stroid onnim ee’got!”

Joe from the kitchen comes down and makes a scene showing off a small trophy he’s stuck a stir stick to and engraved the name “Kev” on.

“Look a’ ‘at!” Mickey the bartender says to Little Kev.

“Wuz ‘at aw ‘bout den, eh?” Little Kevin asks.

“Joe dun brung ye a trofee Kev.”

“’As ee’ kuz Kev ‘eerz a winnuh, ‘ike mee ‘orse!” Annabelle Loon booms with a belly laugh.

“Wauz ‘uh stir stick aw ‘bout den?”

“Iz cuz ‘ee stirs fings up, yeh.”

The regulars enjoy the idea of Little Kevin being a troublemaker and share a round of laughter on the house.

The Raven Dark has proved to be a delicious treat that can’t be enjoyed outside of Bath so I decide to indulge in a second and stealthily wind my way from my nook in the corner over to the bar through a small crowd of regulars.

The first thing they notice is my accent (or lack of one). I point out to Mickey how good the pint was the first time which is the primary reason why I’m returning for another.

Simeon is the first to make a remark. “Yeh, sgood iddin’it?” he says.

“Warm and bubble free,” I say, “which is uncommon where I come from.”

Annabelle Loon jumps in brushing back a few strands of grey hair with a comb. “Ee’ nowai ‘ey ser’ ‘im warm? Eez on ‘kount uh blooday toim ‘takes any English Man taxilly drink o’ pint. Yer arridge English Man yi see is cheep, roit! So, ‘eel o’ bee siddin dare wi’ a pint, roit, aw day on ‘kount eel ony wonna pay fur ‘ust ‘i wun. ‘En wut ‘appens roit wenna pint sits ‘er furrin ayror moa? Idd’ll get warm ‘n flat! Yi may is ‘ell coot out ‘ee midd’l man witch is bloody fookin’ time!”

Annabelle Loon breaks out into boisterous laughter which soars through the entire bar. There’s no stereo to play any music and no TV with sports playing to cancel out any of the noise and it takes Annabelle Loon a solid minute to calm down while the rest of the bar pretend like nothing is happening.

“Yeer frumma ‘merica den eh?”

“Actually, I’m Canadian,” I say.

The differences are too nuanced to have any real effect on him and he’s really only interested in talking about the horses as he sets off on a soliloquy about his horse running at Chepstow at seven thirty as though I have any understanding about what he’s talking about. He reminds me about what gate his horse is running from, he goes over the record of the jockey, the history of the trainer, the fact that it’s been raining and what it’s done, and subsequently will do, to the course, and how that may, or may not, affect the outcome of the race.

At some point Simeon pipes in, “Come on now, Harry, goes easy on ‘i lad!”

“Sorwy, sorwy,” Annabelle Loon says extending a handshake my way “Don’ mean nuffin by mee chattuh, jus bein’ fwendwy yi know.”

I do my best to play it cool and tell him that it’s no bother.

“Ye see,” he shouts with his eyes wide with excitement, “Annabelle Loon ‘i gonna take ‘a corse amorrow, and ‘eez gonna pay out, yissee. Annabelle Loon ‘i iz! Forree ‘uh wun!”

Mickey’s finished pumping my pint while Annabelle Loon throws his down his throat all in one gulp.

“Iywee paintin’ iz town red ‘ll see! Annabelle Loon I’ gunna change iz town!” Imma git me payout, an’ i’ yeer stiw ‘eer amorrow yi pint’ll be o’ me.”

Annabelle Loon salutes the crowd of regulars and exits the pub stage left.

“Don’ fink nuffin ‘bout it,” Simeon says to me. “’Ezz awwayz ‘ike ‘at.”

“What was he on about?” I ask.

“Nobody reewy knows” Mickey the bartender pipes in. “Eez not aw there iv yinno ‘ut I mean. Got affew a dem bats in ‘a belfry, roit.”

“You mean he’s mad?”

“Oi eez madder ‘n mad ‘ee iz!” Gary pipes in.

“What was all this Annabelle Loon talk he was getting on about.”

“Wehw now ‘atz a tricky wun ‘at iz. ‘Yi see ‘iz woif wuz Annabelle roit and goin’ now maybe twel’ firteen years now she wuz committed, see.”

“Committed?!”

“Az roit!”

“Uppin ‘o looney bin she iz, roit!” Little Kevin chimes in, “Oney eez madder n’ she iz!”

“So he calls himself Annabelle Loon?” I ask. “I don’t get it.”

“Fooked iv I know, mate!” Mickey says. “Ee cummin ‘eer, roit, erry day n’ orderrah pint ‘n talk about ’ee ‘orses. It’s ‘is fing roit. Fing is, ‘eez a reguwa. An’ azzuch we tree’ ‘im ‘ike a reguwa. But ‘eez mad ‘ee ‘iz.”

“Is betting on the horses a big thing here?” I ask.

“Guess ‘i can be yeah,” Simeon says.

“Yeh! But fing iz ‘i ‘Arry iz ne’er lay a bet ‘in ‘is life.”

“So his name is Harry then?”

“Yeh, ‘az ‘ight!”

“And this Annabelle Loon thing is something to do with his wife I guess?”

“I mean, maybe,” Mickey says, “Yer guess izzes goodiz moin.”

“Annabelle fo’ ‘i woif, an’ Loon onna kount ‘ee be looney”

The appearance of Annabelle Loon was easily the biggest commotion the pub would see all day although it wasn’t enough to shake Margaret from her crossword or Andy from his newspapers for the fact that they had seen it all before. In my own mind I couldn’t make out whether or not Annabelle Loon’s story was a tragic one or one full of optimism. He smiled wide and seemed overjoyed and full of hope that his horse at the seven-thirty at Chepstow would come in and he’d be able to treat everyone at the bar to a pint. But the thought of him watching on in silence while they dragged his wife away added a drop of sorrow to any heart. I remember over the course of the ping-ponging conversation, Mickey stating under his breath with melancholic sincerity that “she was lovely” – now just another memory of the cornerstones that form the foundation of the joys and sorrows that have been immaculately preserved between those four walls. Sometimes the borders between lovely and mad can be difficult to identify and though I didn’t press anyone on the details as to why she was taken away to the asylum, I did ponder what it was that would have forced their authoritative hand. What, after all, does it take for one to trespass over the boundary into madness in the eyes of the majority?

I returned to the Raven each day that I was in Bath and Paul and Andy and Little Kev and Gary were in just the same spots as I had left them when Sunday came around. I had my pie and my mash and my mushy peas as usual and by the time I left they all knew my name. I never did see Annabelle Loon again at the Raven but my eyes did catch a glance of the paper that Paul would read every day.

“Paul, give us the papers then if you don’t mind?” I asked.

“’Ereye go! ‘aint no bovver.”

I didn’t really know what I was looking for but scanning over the pages I came to the results of the horse races from the previous day and couldn’t help but draw my eyes to the results at Chepstow. It turns out that the winner during the seven-thirty race was a horse called Zephyrina that came in at 13 to 2. I was only looking at the odds, of course, and figured that in no way could that have been Annabelle Loon’s horse until I scrolled down the list of the results and saw that the horse that came in last, with odds at forty to one, was a two-year-old named “And a balloon”.