the drama for my liking.
‘Arthur!’ called a squat bald man in a polo-neck jumper, wearing one black and one green wellington. ‘Heard you had a brush with death yesterday. Let me get you a pint.’
The hand fell away from my back and my uncle was gone.
‘Bleedin’ Nora.’ Lizzie relieved me of the cool box and handed me a bar towel to wipe my face and dab at my knees. A brandy appeared on the bar. I smiled my thanks at Bill, the landlord, a balding man in a very snazzy waistcoat, and swigged at the glass. I squeezed my eyes shut as the fiery liquid burned the back of my throat. My lips felt bee-stung and not in a good way. I swiped at a bit of dribble.
That was better, sort of. I took a deep breath and a second mouthful.
‘Oi, there is a queue, you know,’ a voice chuckled in my ear, mimicking my stroppy outburst from the bridle path earlier this afternoon.
I swallowed the brandy and whirled round to locate the source of the jibe. A man, elbowing a path away from the bar while balancing three pint glasses in his hands, turned back and winked at me. I gasped for air and a hand flew to my mouth. Was that …? It must be. It was. Harry from Willow Farm. And it must have been him on the phone shouting away at the top of the hill.
Wow! I almost didn’t recognize him. He hadn’t changed a bit. That didn’t make sense. He was bigger. Obviously. And older. Duh! My heart was thumping. What was it – ten years? It must be. Ten years since I’d seen him. Blimey, where had the time gone? Same cheeky smile, though. Fancy that.
I watched him until his broad shoulders became swallowed up by a noisy crowd of men.
Harry Graythwaite. My neighbour, my mate, my partner in crime – through my tomboy phase, through my teenage years, every school holiday I spent on the farm. Until I was eighteen and we’d gone our separate ways.
Bloody hell, it was good to see him. He looked … well … great. I should go and say hello properly. Apologize for my manners earlier …
I set my brandy glass down on the bar and surveyed the wet patches on my knees. Maybe not tonight. I might not be the most preeniest of girls, but I did have some standards.
‘Er, hello!’ Lizzie was grinning at me, arms folded, head cocked to one side. ‘I thought you said you were spoken for.’
I turned back to the bar and giggled. ‘Sorry, Lizzie. Had a bit of a shock.’
Understatement. I didn’t know which was worse, falling over on the way to the pub or bumping into Harry again looking like a bedraggled wasp.
‘I can see that. Now, do you want a proper drink?’
‘Yes. Cider, please.’
I pulled my phone out of my handbag while I waited for her to come back with my drink. No signal here, either. How did people cope, I wondered, not being able to talk to their other halves? My stomach flipped.
Like Charlie.
I hadn’t spoken to him since arriving at the train station last night. I should have phoned him from Knots Hill earlier. He’d be thinking about me. I hoped. I’d been thinking about him, too, in between everything else that had gone on today. I made a mental note to call him from the farm’s landline and slipped my phone away.
‘Get your chops round that.’ Lizzie placed a pint of cider in front of me. I sidled round to where it was quieter at the glass collection end of the bar and Lizzie followed me down. ‘So, tell me about this fella of yours, then.’
Tonight she was wearing a cropped cotton top decorated with white and yellow daisies, her hair was arranged in loose curls and her lips shone with a soft pink gloss. She looked like the Goddess of Spring. I was surprised she’d even consort with me, looking as dishevelled as I did. But I was glad of her company and began to tell her about Charlie – how we met and my job and his allotment. I chatted away for some minutes but couldn’t help noticing that she kept glancing over my shoulder. Finally, I could take it no more and turned round to see what was catching her
‘Arthur!’ called a squat bald man in a polo-neck jumper, wearing one black and one green wellington. ‘Heard you had a brush with death yesterday. Let me get you a pint.’
The hand fell away from my back and my uncle was gone.
‘Bleedin’ Nora.’ Lizzie relieved me of the cool box and handed me a bar towel to wipe my face and dab at my knees. A brandy appeared on the bar. I smiled my thanks at Bill, the landlord, a balding man in a very snazzy waistcoat, and swigged at the glass. I squeezed my eyes shut as the fiery liquid burned the back of my throat. My lips felt bee-stung and not in a good way. I swiped at a bit of dribble.
That was better, sort of. I took a deep breath and a second mouthful.
‘Oi, there is a queue, you know,’ a voice chuckled in my ear, mimicking my stroppy outburst from the bridle path earlier this afternoon.
I swallowed the brandy and whirled round to locate the source of the jibe. A man, elbowing a path away from the bar while balancing three pint glasses in his hands, turned back and winked at me. I gasped for air and a hand flew to my mouth. Was that …? It must be. It was. Harry from Willow Farm. And it must have been him on the phone shouting away at the top of the hill.
Wow! I almost didn’t recognize him. He hadn’t changed a bit. That didn’t make sense. He was bigger. Obviously. And older. Duh! My heart was thumping. What was it – ten years? It must be. Ten years since I’d seen him. Blimey, where had the time gone? Same cheeky smile, though. Fancy that.
I watched him until his broad shoulders became swallowed up by a noisy crowd of men.
Harry Graythwaite. My neighbour, my mate, my partner in crime – through my tomboy phase, through my teenage years, every school holiday I spent on the farm. Until I was eighteen and we’d gone our separate ways.
Bloody hell, it was good to see him. He looked … well … great. I should go and say hello properly. Apologize for my manners earlier …
I set my brandy glass down on the bar and surveyed the wet patches on my knees. Maybe not tonight. I might not be the most preeniest of girls, but I did have some standards.
‘Er, hello!’ Lizzie was grinning at me, arms folded, head cocked to one side. ‘I thought you said you were spoken for.’
I turned back to the bar and giggled. ‘Sorry, Lizzie. Had a bit of a shock.’
Understatement. I didn’t know which was worse, falling over on the way to the pub or bumping into Harry again looking like a bedraggled wasp.
‘I can see that. Now, do you want a proper drink?’
‘Yes. Cider, please.’
I pulled my phone out of my handbag while I waited for her to come back with my drink. No signal here, either. How did people cope, I wondered, not being able to talk to their other halves? My stomach flipped.
Like Charlie.
I hadn’t spoken to him since arriving at the train station last night. I should have phoned him from Knots Hill earlier. He’d be thinking about me. I hoped. I’d been thinking about him, too, in between everything else that had gone on today. I made a mental note to call him from the farm’s landline and slipped my phone away.
‘Get your chops round that.’ Lizzie placed a pint of cider in front of me. I sidled round to where it was quieter at the glass collection end of the bar and Lizzie followed me down. ‘So, tell me about this fella of yours, then.’
Tonight she was wearing a cropped cotton top decorated with white and yellow daisies, her hair was arranged in loose curls and her lips shone with a soft pink gloss. She looked like the Goddess of Spring. I was surprised she’d even consort with me, looking as dishevelled as I did. But I was glad of her company and began to tell her about Charlie – how we met and my job and his allotment. I chatted away for some minutes but couldn’t help noticing that she kept glancing over my shoulder. Finally, I could take it no more and turned round to see what was catching her
Similar Books
