Kate's Progress by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

wooden floors, high-backed settles and mismatched wooden tables. There was the usual selection of old sepia photographs and dim pictures on the walls, and odd bits of china, ornaments and copper objects on shelves and across the mantelpiece of the brick fireplace. There seemed to be three bars, all on different levels. To her left as she entered was a slightly smarter area where two couples, obviously tourists, were sitting at tables, quietly conversing, while they waited for food. Straight ahead was the public bar, and three men in working clothes were seated on stools along it, pints before them. One had a dog lying at his feet, and that decided her. She went up to the bar, and the dog, a collie, heaved itself to its feet and looked up at her, swinging its tail politely.
    ‘Lovely dog,’ she said, bending to caress its head. None of the three looked at her, but she deduced that this was shyness rather than unfriendliness. ‘What’s his name?’ she asked.
    ‘Gyp,’ said his owner, addressing the beer in front of him.
    ‘Working dog, is he?’
    The reply was a sort of strangled grunt. But the man behind the bar, who had been at the other end washing glasses, had spotted the danger and came hurrying down to the rescue.
    ‘Help you?’ he said. He looked about sixty, and was short and burly with a wide, flat red face under a shock of white hair. He gave her the sort of smile you give strangers who are also customers, the one that doesn’t touch your eyes.
    ‘I’d like a pint, please,’ Kate said. ‘Which is the local beer?’
    ‘Well, there’s the Cotleigh Tawny,’ he said, tapping the pumps, ‘or you’ve got your Hewish IPA, that’s from Weston.’
    ‘I’ll try the Cotleigh, thanks. And can I get something to eat? I’ve been fancying a ploughman’s.’
    ‘Cheddar, Stilton or pâté?’
    That was the tourist influence. Years ago the question wouldn’t have been asked. ‘Cheddar, please. Is it local?’
    He seemed, just discernibly, to approve of the question. ‘Just up the road. This side of Exton. Broad Farm Cheddar.’
    ‘Sounds perfect.’ Kate watched him put the food order through a hatch behind him and draw the pint. Her three companions had their heads down, contemplating their glasses so as not to have to look at her.
    ‘Where’ll you be sitting?’ the landlord asked, placing her glass before her.
    ‘Oh, I’ll stay here,’ she said. ‘Got to make myself at home, now I’ve moved in to the place. This’ll be my local.’
    Now he looked at her properly. ‘Moved in?’
    ‘I’ve just bought Little’s Cottage.’
    The three heads came up and turned, like a line of cattle at a trough. The landlord, now examining her thoroughly, said, ‘I heard it was sold. Thought it must be a mistake. So that was you, was it? You actually bought the place – not rented it?’
    ‘Bought and paid for,’ she said firmly. She stuck out her hand. ‘My name’s Kate Jennings.’
    He took it, though rather cringingly. ‘Dave. Doing it up, are you?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘Then what? Selling it? Holiday cottage?’
    She had enough sense to know this was a leading question. ‘I haven’t decided yet. I’m thinking of settling in the area. I used to come here as a kid. My dad’s from Exford.’
    ‘Is that right? Local girl, are you? Well, I hope we see a lot of you. Can do with some more young people settling round here. These three characters are Ollie, Wayne and Kev. You’ll see a lot of
them
if you’re in much.’
    They gave her shy smiles, and she beamed back at them. ‘So tell me,’ she said to Dave, ‘why were you surprised I’d bought Little’s Cottage?’
    ‘Never even heard it was for sale,’ Dave said. ‘No sign up or anything. Kept it quiet, didn’t they? Then Terry from over the Blue Ball comes in and says did I hear Little’s was sold. I said, “You must be mistaken, old son.” But he says, fact.’
    ‘Ed Blackmore, he swore they’d never sell any more of the