The Sinking Admiral. Simon Brett

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      By the time Amy had finally managed to persuade Ben to quit the bar, and convinced him she was not going to accompany him up to his bedroom, it was well past midnight.

      She took another look at the dirty kitchen and hoped that Meriel would be in early. There was no way she herself was going to deal with it at that hour. Then she shrugged her way into her Barbour and fished a pair of woollen gloves out of the pocket. Roll on spring, she thought.

      She checked that the key to Ianthe Berkeley’s room wasn’t hanging on its hook behind the reception desk. The fact it wasn’t there was no guarantee, of course, that the woman was in her room. Or even in the pub. But the room keys opened the side door, a fact that was always explained to guests on arrival, so Amy locked both that and the front door, then let herself out of the back.

      In the act of using her key to secure that door as well, she stood for a moment fighting an unexpected urge to return and go upstairs to Ben’s room.

      He’d put his empty glass down on the bar, and, just as she was preparing to tell him that had definitely been his last one, he’d run a finger along her right eyebrow. ‘I love the way you raise this whenever you think I’ve gone too far,’ he said. ‘And your nose is enchanting.’ He’d leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on its tip.

      Amy had felt something melt within her. If he’d been silent then, she would probably have been in his bed before you could say ‘reality show’. Instead, ‘Up the stairs with you,’ he had said, and had given her behind a quick smack.

      So that had been that. It was the nearest thing she’d experienced to: ‘Wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’. Hadn’t the man a smidgen of romance in his soul?

      She had pulled down the grille that secured the bar and its contents, snapping the padlock shut. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

      ‘Amy!’ He had reached for her, but she wasn’t going to let him get that near to her again.

      ‘Mind the stairs, they’re tricky for anyone under the influence,’ she called on her way out to her coat. She had not looked back.

      For a few moments there had been deep satisfaction at the strangled cry of frustration that had reached her as she left.

      Now, though, she remembered that moment of tenderness and felt something approaching regret.

      The air was chilly outside after the warmth of the bar. Amy drew the ancient but serviceable Barbour around herself as she set off along the shore to her little cottage. The moon was full, flooding the beach with silver light.

      Phrases from the captivating duet from The Pearl Fishers sang in her mind as she crunched her way over the pebbly beach. Was true romance confined to fiction? She had thought her decision never to fall in love again was as sensible as her shoes. Love, true love, had done for her. Amy shivered. The door she had shut on that relationship, one that had brought such delight and such despair, must remain closed. Closed, barred, locked, secured.

      How could she have let a pair of brown eyes switch on a set of electric currents, making her tingle in ways that brought back so many memories? It wasn’t as if she even liked the man! Or could respect him!

      Amy forced herself to put any thought of Ben out of her mind. Instead she considered the unusual behaviour of her boss, the Admiral. Buying drinks for everyone like that, telling them all it was a ‘Last Hurrah’; what had the man been thinking of?

      And what did that constant procession of people up to the Bridge mean? One by one they had climbed the stairs, and one by one they had returned. There had been the occasional order for a pint or some other tipple. None of them had seemed talkative; some had left in a hurried, almost furtive way. What had been their business with the Admiral?

      Once again Amy wondered what it was he wanted to talk to her about. It must be something to do with the pub. She almost managed to convince herself that he had decided it must be sold. Yet he had seemed so uncharacte‌ristically cheerful. And there had been that look he’d given her; surely, though, she was reading too much into it? Thinking that it said something had made him change his mind about her?

      Ever since she had started work at the Admiral Byng, its landlord had been a constant support. She’d arrived in Crabwell on a wickedly rainy winter’s night, her woollen coat soaked right through. She had sat in it on the long bus ride, shivering, not knowing where she was going. All she knew was that she was leaving the past behind her. The bus had dropped her in front of a bank. Both that and the shops arranged around a small attempt at a village square were closed tight. Since it was nearly eight o’clock in the evening, that was hardly surprising. ‘Crabwell, end of the line,’ the driver had said. She had picked up her suitcase, and asked, ‘Is there a hotel?’

      ‘There’s the Admiral Byng,’ the only other passenger left had said as he got off. ‘It has rooms,’ he had added doubtfully. Then he had cheered up slightly. ‘The landlord’s a bit eccentric, but a good sort.’ He had pointed at the road ahead. ‘Five minutes’ walk that way.’

      Amy had thanked him. She had looked around the square again, but it offered nothing useful, so she had set off in the direction indicated. One of the little wheels on her case had come to grief over a large stone as she tramped down the dark road, trees on either side. She had cursed. The case had begun to feel heavier and heavier, and the rain never let up. Then, suddenly, she had come around a bend, and there was the pub, its lights shining on the wet road. It was as though some fairy godmother had waved her wand and conjured a safe haven.

      The landlord had been welcoming. She’d liked his look, his blazer and cravat reminded her of Gramps, the grandfather she had been close to as she grew up, as did the twinkle in his eye. He’d come over the moment she’d entered the bar. He’d taken her case from her, helped her out of the wet coat, and supplied a whisky-mac. ‘It’s what you need, m’dear,’ he’d said, handing the glass over and waving her towards a seat beside the happily burning fire. She’d been the only customer.

      He’d shaken out her drenched coat and said, ‘Not my idea of a waterproof.’ And on the spot he’d found an old Barbour hanging from a hook in the bar and presented it to her. Shabby, but it did keep the rain out, and Amy still wore it. Not really the style for someone her age, but then she’d never been that bothered about fashion.

      The bedroom Fitz had shown her to later that night had a cosily sloping ceiling, a fat old-fashioned eiderdown on a brass bedstead, and a deeply comfortable armchair. More comfortable, in fact, than the bed. But she’d been exhausted, and had slept right through to morning. Then she found that her room had a view of the sea, all a-sparkle with the sun shining as though it didn’t know what grey, rainy days were. A low windowsill meant she could sit in the chair and look at the dancing waves advancing over a beach where sand gave way to pebbles as it approached the waterline. Small boats were drawn up, their anchors buried safely in the shingle.

      They were the same boats she was looking at now, three years later, the moonlight coating them with magic. Beyond them, towards Amy’s cottage, well above the tide line, stood three tents. Tents, in chilly March? Then she remembered that Greta Knox, the Girl Guide leader, had said that her troop was going to sample the delights of camping. ‘Overnight?’ Amy had asked when they had met a few days before in the village shop. ‘I thought your girls were too fond of their comforts to mimic Arctic explorers.’

      ‘We’ll see,’ Greta had said, her tone full of the determination that had corralled every teenage girl for miles around to join her Guide troop. She gave a huffing laugh. ‘The girls can surprise one.’

      Amy СКАЧАТЬ