Chapter Eleven

J ack collects plates and cutlery from the table of today’s lingering lunchtime elderly couple. They earnestly tell him the prawns were perfect and, thank you, they don’t need more drinks, they’ll finish up and be off soon. Jack hurries into the kitchen where he sets the dishes on the work bench. He runs an approving eye over the bare and clean pine table in the middle of the big room and the shelves where saucepans, platters and industrial packs of food stuffs park in serried rows. Varnished wooden cupboard doors gleam where sun through the high windows touches them, and the tiled floor retains vestiges of damp spots from its post-lunch wash.

Tom, the cook – the King’s Shilling’s food offering isn’t fancy enough to warrant a grandly titled chef – squats on the floor scrubbing the inside of the oven door. Two dishwashers gurgle and rumble to assure the boss they’re on the job, no slacking.

Jack rubs his chin. His pub, his kitchen. Twelve seesawing years haven’t diminished his pride of ownership, of enjoying the old place’s humble yet good reputation. The kind of pub where the locals hang out, a secret to strangers, tucked down its dirt track off the main road.

‘Should have a sign up at the road,’ Tom had said after spending thirty minutes searching when he came for his interview eight years ago.

Jack had agreed. The sign remains absent. He makes a living, enough for his needs. Need also dictates his attitude to the suggested improvements his friends offer from time to time. Jack shudders. The day an arcade style game machine makes it into the bar will be the day after he’s carried out in his coffin. He’s resisted a juke box too, claiming not everyone has the same taste in music and besides, isn’t the pub about conversation? Overloud music would interfere with friendly gossip. His friends tell him he talks like he’s eighty-two, not fifty-two, slap him on the shoulder and buy another round of local cider.

‘Busy enough today.’ Jack moves to the sink to fetch a cloth to wipe the tables

Tom, his head in the oven, grunts a response.

‘It’s the good weather, brings in the walkers, the retirees wanting an outing and any tourists who can find us,’ Jack says.

Tom hauls himself from his scrubbing. ‘Should get that sign on the road, Jack.’ He throws out his palms, hanging on to the greasy cloth. ‘Been telling you for eight years.’

‘Still can’t find the place?’ Jack teases, and Tom rolls his eyes and scrubs the oven.

Damp cloth in hand, Jack goes back to the bar and the tables. The couple are settled in with their wine, letting the prawns digest, no rush to go anywhere. Another customer has arrived.

A woman, dressed too smartly to be local and wearing walking boots, wanders along one wall inspecting the sketches and paintings. When she twists about to face him, Jack experiences a buzz of recognition. Straight black hair to the shoulders, high cheekbones, dark eyes, lightly tanned skin. He frowns. No, he can’t place her.

‘Smuggling?’ she says, and smiles.

The buzz fizzes in his blood, although he’s certain he’s never met her. Not with her Australian accent. But … there’s a familiarity he can’t put a finger on.

‘Smuggling?’ Jack stands with his wet cloth in one hand, the other hand dangling at his side.

‘The paintings and press cuttings. They say the King’s Shilling was the haunt of smugglers, and not too long ago either.’

‘Ah yes.’ He’s got it. Dropping the cloth on the bar towel, Jack moves to her side. The faintly herbal scent of her shampoo, or soap, is fresh after the booze and food smells of the pub. He subtly breathes it in. ‘Inherited these when I bought the place,’ he says, ‘and have added a few since.’

‘I guess it’s handy to the river, nice and easy to haul things up on shore.’

‘Exactly.’ He waves towards the open main door which gives a view of the pill, the stream which fills when the Severn tide rolls in from the Bristol channel. ‘They could bring their row boats right up to the dock, hide the goods among the cider barrels.’

‘I saw bits of it, the dock, or what’s left.’

‘Interested in history?’ He has history he would like to tell her, should she wish to listen.

‘Yes, yes I am. It’s kind of why I’m here.’ Her smile turns inwards, the dark eyes lowered. She doesn’t elaborate and Jack doesn’t ask.

He coughs. ‘Anyway, did you come to admire the paintings, or hunting up a drink? Lunch is over, I’m afraid.’ If she needs food, he’ll make it himself.

‘Drink, please. Had a late breakfast.’

When she laughs, that buzz vibrates in Jack’s chest, filling him with a subtle contentment.

‘Jet lag,’ she’s explaining. ‘Got in yesterday from Aus.’

Jack glances at her shoes, stained with river mud. ‘The way to get over jet lag is to go walking on the river path, hey?’

‘Hopefully.’

They stand there, looking at each other. Jack coughs again, moves to the bar. ‘What can I get you?’ From the corner of his eye he catches the woman of the lingering couple watching with crinkled eyes and a knowing smirk. His neck grows warm.

All professional landlord, Jack pours a lime and soda, remembers after he’s given her the drink how Australians and Americans like ice, but it’d be awkward to snatch the glass from her. Come on, Jack, stop acting like a school boy.

‘Have to say,’ he says, ‘we don’t see many Aussies around here. Staying long?’ And does she come with a husband and glowering teenagers? He flicks a glance at her left hand and groans inwardly. Of course, husband at least, a woman like her. The teenagers are yet to be confirmed.

‘Think so.’ She perches on a stool and gulps thirstily from the glass. ‘Ah, needed that.’

‘Only think you’re staying long?’ Is he being too nosy?

‘Planning to stay until September.’

‘I’m off, Jack.’ Tom’s head emerges around the door to the kitchen. He says hi to the woman and he’ll see Jack later, and the head withdraws.

‘Right,’ Jack calls.

The couple take Tom’s interruption as a sign to leave too. With a noisy pushing back of her chair on the uneven flagged floor, the woman pulls on her coat and wanders to the door with a smirk for Jack and a sly narrowing of the eyes at his new customer. The man ambles over, pulling out his wallet, fumbling for cash. Jack totals their bill on an invoice and hands it to the man who studies it, lips moving as he totes up the items and counts out notes and coins to the precise total.

‘Good grub,’ he says. ‘We’ll see you another time,’ and with a wave he shambles out to meet his wife.

‘Am I stopping you closing?’ the woman asks.

The clock above the bar says two thirty, and yes, she’s stopping him closing.

‘No, no,’ Jack says. ‘Take your time. I’ve things to do.’ He grins. Inane. He closes down the grin, collects the cold damp cloth and carries it to the table vacated by the elderly couple. He sets their glasses to one side to wipe the surface. ‘Where are you staying?’ he asks. God. Predatory. ‘I mean, which village, I don’t mean –’

‘No problem,’ she says breezily. ‘At the Victoria in Shiphaven, for the time being.’

‘Guess a hotel for a few months would mount up.’

‘And not be fun.’ She swivels around on the stool to watch him work.

Jack collects the glasses in one hand and brings them to the bar, nodding his agreement about the not being fun.

‘My plan is to do a bit of exploring, see if I can find a short-term let, a holiday cottage, for the summer.’ She tilts her head to the side, her dark eyes questioning. ‘I’m guessing there’re a few about, just hope I’m not too late to book anything.’

Jack concentrates on washing the glasses in the sink behind the bar while his heart beats a soft tattoo. ‘Umm,’ he says, head lowered, ‘if it’s any help, I have a cottage coming available in a few days.’ He risks a sideways glance. She’s frowning, waiting for him to go on. ‘Along the road from here a few miles, in Barnley.’ He catches her eye. ‘If you’re interested, I’d be happy to show it to you.’

‘Barnley?’ Her eyes gleam like he’s offered her Christmas on a plate. ‘Perfect! More than happy,’ she says. ‘Oh, I’m Mara, Mara Ash.’

She offers him her hand. Jack takes it. Her hand is cool and soft. He’s conscious of his own great paws, rough from wiping tables and rinsing glasses. ‘Jack Hewson,’ he says. ‘Welcome to the Forest.’

***

Mara’s hand is engulfed in the landlord’s vast grip. Jack Hewson. With chestnut hair beginning to grey at the sides and blue eyes she could fall into. Mara brings herself up short. What on earth? He’s also Jack with a cottage in Barnley, which is a piece of luck, assuming the place is halfway habitable.

In his soft Gloucestershire burr, Jack is telling her about the cottage, how it’s old, and small, quiet, down a lane, and the garden’s pretty, he has a man come and take care of it because he barely knows a tulip from a hydrangea, and Mara thinks of Josie teasing her and says her daughter is the one with green fingers – magic fingers like her grandmother, pops into Mara’s mind – not her, although she loves to sit in a flower-filled garden in the evening –

‘Over a drink,’ Jack interrupts, and Mara agrees. ‘A cool gin and tonic –’

‘With ice,’ he says, his face and neck blushing pink, and Mara wonders what the blush is about …

He gives her the address and a mud map, and they arrange to meet at the cottage tomorrow at four o’clock.

‘Mightn’t be too tidy, given the current people don’t move out until after lunch,’ Jack warns. ‘If you decide to take it, I promise it’ll be spick and span. Always have cleaners in between tenants.’

‘I’m sure,’ Mara says. She swallows the last of her drink and slides off the stool. ‘I’ve kept you too long. It’s been good to meet you.’ Raising her empty glass, she says, ‘What do I owe you for this?’

‘Nothing.’ Jack holds up his palm. ‘Consider it a bribe, on the house, with the expectation of a lot of business while you’re here.’

Is he flirting with her? Mara grins, restrains herself from gazing too deeply into those blue eyes. ‘Fair enough, and thanks.’ She walks to the door, turns. ‘Umm, you couldn’t point me in the right direction for Shiphaven, could you?’

He opens his mouth, shuts it as if deciding not to say what first came to mind. ‘Sure,’ and he walks to join her. ‘Let me show you.’

A good thing the directions are straightforward because Mara’s attention is distracted by Jack’s tall, lean body next to hers, pointing up the track, telling her to be careful when she crosses the road …

She promises she will and sets off, conscious of his eyes on her back.

***

She’s gone, striding up the track with a steady gait, a person used to pacing herself. Jack goes inside, shuts the door and locks it. Should he have offered her a lift? No, too much. Women like Mara Ash don’t accept lifts from strangers.

He’ll see her tomorrow. The anticipation lightens his steps as he checks for hidden glasses and dirty plates. Satisfied, he walks outside and wanders among the trees to the river. The way Mara Ash would have arrived at the King’s Shilling

The bright afternoon has dimmed, the wind stiffening. He eyes the clouded sky. He should have driven her. And arrived at the Victoria to be introduced to Mr Ash and the daughter?

He mulls this over. When talking about staying, Mara never said ‘we’.

***

The spatters start as Mara walks a path lined with bluebells, beech trees beginning to leaf above them. Through the greening branches, she catches a glimpse of a church spire and hurries on. The clouds burst at the moment she comes out at the crest of a narrow road. The village lies below her. She runs, praying there are no cars speeding behind her, and arrives dripping and chilled at the hotel five minutes later.

In her room, Mara towels her hair and face and changes into jeans and a jumper. She makes herself a cup of tea and stares out the window at the rain, nibbling the complimentary biscuits. Jack Hewson’s blue eyes stare at her from beyond the glass. Mara pushes her fringe from her forehead and huffs. She has enough on her plate dealing with her husband – her husband, she reminds herself. Instant attractions to pub landlords with soft burrs for voices and eyes like summer pools are not what she wants. Needs. His cottage is a different matter.

The storm is quickly over. The sun flaunts itself, preening in its victory over the clouds and their soaking contents. Mara grabs the keys to the Ford Fiesta and sets out to find Barnley.

Her mud map shows the hamlet is a few miles south of Shiphaven, and to go left into a lane opposite a butcher shop. In the lane, Mara slows the car to walking pace and creeps along, searching for Lavender Cottage.

‘There’s lavender everywhere,’ Jack had said. ‘Bees’ paradise.’

There it is. Stone built, with a stone-tiled roof, deep-set light blue wooden windows and a heavy shiny black front door with a brass acorn knocker. A climber, beginning to flower, covers much of the front. The cottage’s narrow front strip of garden is protected by a low stone wall behind which lavender bushes and daisies compete for space. There’s a much larger garden to the side, partly grassed, with a number of dug-over beds and a huge oak, one of several along the lane.

Mara stares at this idyllic vision. She doesn’t need the guided tour tomorrow and who cares what the inside is like? Lavender Cottage will be her home for the next few months.