briskly. ‘If I go back to the White Hart, I shall be able to give Nigel Ho another shout. Now, in that little kitchen you’ll find there’s pasta sauce for an army, and plenty of pasta. Salad to go with it – I’ve already washed it, so there’s no need to venture out again – and a jar of dressing. There’s cheese and fresh bread for afters.’ It was some of the local cheese for which the White Hart was justly renowned, but let them discover the quality for themselves. ‘And you could open a market stall with all the fruit you’ve acquired. I wasn’t sure about wine? In church?’ I held up a corkscrew by way of temptation.
Andy took the corkscrew from my hand and hiscue from my neutral tone. ‘Bring it on!’ He added,
sotto voce
, ‘You’re not going to let a couple of unpleasant old men get to you?’
‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘I shall be trying to find out exactly why something I said got to them.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Half of me wanted to hurtle into Taunton to check the local paper for references to Malins and Corbishley. But reason told me that if they had done anything I could get an angle on, they wouldn’t have gone public with it. If they had, they wouldn’t still be pillars of the church, rigid with respectability. The other half was reminded, by the sight of all the walkers consuming lunchtime bar snacks, the only food on offer on Mondays, that I hadn’t had my constitutional for a couple of days. Obviously I’d been otherwise engaged yesterday, and Saturdays were now so busy that all three of us chefs worked throughout the day to prepare for the hordes descending on the new dining room, once the foetid snug.
As part of the refurbishments, I had emptied an old store room, known locally as the landlord’s sheep shagging den, and refurnished it as a new snug for the regulars, complete with genuine old furniture from a country inn newly become a chic holiday residence used perhaps three weeks a year.The same fate would almost certainly have befallen the White Hart had I not stepped in. My changes might not have pleased all the locals, but at least, once their excruciatingly painful old settles were
in situ
, some were grudgingly prepared to admit that a clean, warm bar, serving a wide range of locally grown food, was better than no pub at all.
I had had their old haunt completely gutted, and slung out the cast iron and plastic furniture, too tatty even to keep for use in the beer garden. I replaced it with even older, but beautiful, serviceable, elegant furniture – a couple of George II tables, for instance, which had been ridiculously cheap just because they were the wrong George. The result was a gratifying influx of older clients, the sort who came on time, chose fine wines, and left quietly at a sensible hour. To the bemusement of the old codgers, their new territory was rapidly being colonised by a highly profitable wine bar clientele. But not even for all their crisp tenners and the pleasure of their televisual faces would I apply for a late licence: my reluctant neighbours deserved to sleep at night. As did the children in what had once been B and B rooms. And me, come to think of it.
As the bar emptied, I resolved to take a walk, despite the vicious wind. A static week always saw the scales creeping up again, and that wasn’t part of my plan at all. Since Nick was disinclined to exercise without company, I popped up to his roomand told him to get his boots too. He hushed me with an admonitory finger.
‘Come and look at this – quick!’ he hissed, pointing at the television.
I sat heavily beside him.
There was St Jude’s, slap in the middle of the regional lunchtime news.
Tim and Andy stood beside a pretty but frozen-looking reporter, the shot framed by the lychgate.
‘Father Martin, many of your parishioners are up in arms about your decision to harbour an illegal immigrant accused of a serious crime—’
Andy stepped in. ‘You are misinformed. There is no
Andy took the corkscrew from my hand and hiscue from my neutral tone. ‘Bring it on!’ He added,
sotto voce
, ‘You’re not going to let a couple of unpleasant old men get to you?’
‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘I shall be trying to find out exactly why something I said got to them.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Half of me wanted to hurtle into Taunton to check the local paper for references to Malins and Corbishley. But reason told me that if they had done anything I could get an angle on, they wouldn’t have gone public with it. If they had, they wouldn’t still be pillars of the church, rigid with respectability. The other half was reminded, by the sight of all the walkers consuming lunchtime bar snacks, the only food on offer on Mondays, that I hadn’t had my constitutional for a couple of days. Obviously I’d been otherwise engaged yesterday, and Saturdays were now so busy that all three of us chefs worked throughout the day to prepare for the hordes descending on the new dining room, once the foetid snug.
As part of the refurbishments, I had emptied an old store room, known locally as the landlord’s sheep shagging den, and refurnished it as a new snug for the regulars, complete with genuine old furniture from a country inn newly become a chic holiday residence used perhaps three weeks a year.The same fate would almost certainly have befallen the White Hart had I not stepped in. My changes might not have pleased all the locals, but at least, once their excruciatingly painful old settles were
in situ
, some were grudgingly prepared to admit that a clean, warm bar, serving a wide range of locally grown food, was better than no pub at all.
I had had their old haunt completely gutted, and slung out the cast iron and plastic furniture, too tatty even to keep for use in the beer garden. I replaced it with even older, but beautiful, serviceable, elegant furniture – a couple of George II tables, for instance, which had been ridiculously cheap just because they were the wrong George. The result was a gratifying influx of older clients, the sort who came on time, chose fine wines, and left quietly at a sensible hour. To the bemusement of the old codgers, their new territory was rapidly being colonised by a highly profitable wine bar clientele. But not even for all their crisp tenners and the pleasure of their televisual faces would I apply for a late licence: my reluctant neighbours deserved to sleep at night. As did the children in what had once been B and B rooms. And me, come to think of it.
As the bar emptied, I resolved to take a walk, despite the vicious wind. A static week always saw the scales creeping up again, and that wasn’t part of my plan at all. Since Nick was disinclined to exercise without company, I popped up to his roomand told him to get his boots too. He hushed me with an admonitory finger.
‘Come and look at this – quick!’ he hissed, pointing at the television.
I sat heavily beside him.
There was St Jude’s, slap in the middle of the regional lunchtime news.
Tim and Andy stood beside a pretty but frozen-looking reporter, the shot framed by the lychgate.
‘Father Martin, many of your parishioners are up in arms about your decision to harbour an illegal immigrant accused of a serious crime—’
Andy stepped in. ‘You are misinformed. There is no
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