A Taste of Freedom

We had little time, we knew that. The security police would be alerted as soon as we made any move towards opening it.

It had been hidden away down in this disused cellar for weeks; each of us taking time on a rota to come and check that it was still here, still working away and still hidden away.

Now we were all here, at great danger and probably at great cost.

It was ready.

We were ready.

For some, this would be their first time, for others the older ones like me; it was a chance to recapture the past and a chance to see if the reality of it matched those golden memories of what we had lost.

We looked around at each other.

I wondered if those others there were wondering the same thing as me. Was there a traitor amongst us, was there a spy here, reporting back to the security police on our every move?

I knew that if there was a spy, an agent here, he would have to make his move soon.

We all glanced at the clock, watching the time count down. I nodded over at Stan who sat, holding the remote. He switched the TV on, just as the final pre-match adverts were coming to a close.

As one, we all stood up, clutching the glasses that seemed to sit so awkwardly in out hands, unfamiliar and strange even to those of us who remembered when it was not illegal.

We queued up, suddenly, eager not to miss the start of the match as Pete opened the tap on the barrel and the first pint of illegal beer began to pour into Andy’s waiting glass.

It looked good, golden brown, pure and clear with a soft foamy head on the top. Those of us behind in the queue licked our lips as the memory of pints drunk in freedom came back to us.

Soon, I knew, I would be drinking my first pint of beer for over five years. It was five years since they had made beer illegal and it seemed ten times as long; especially when there was a match on.

I turned to face the TV, as the whistle blew and they kicked off, holding the glass up to my lips and smelling that smell of malt and hops and yeast that had once been as familiar a smell to me as my own wife’s hair. I could feel the bubbles of the head, soft against my upper lip as I was about to drink.

Then the sirens sounded and the scream of brakes outside told us it was too late.