‘So, has our hard work earned us a visit to the pub?’ I asked.
Finn glanced at the small carrier bag that I hung off two fingers. ‘Hard work? And what the fuck have you done?’
‘Bought a pack of disposable razors, a box of tampons and an apple.’‘Wow. Knock yourself out, lady.’
He had finally relaxed a little. Henry was visibly relieved at Finn’s return to relative normality, and I wondered how many times this endless cycle of provocation and forgiveness had been played out. ‘So. Pub?’ I asked again.
‘Oh. Um, well… I don’t know.’ Henry said, skittishly.
‘Finn?’ I pleaded, like a naughty schoolgirl persuading the class swots to bunk off for the afternoon.
‘Henry, we’re doing fine for time. C’mon, one small sherry won’t kill you.’
Henry pursed his lips, tempted. Finally he gave a dramatic little sigh. ‘Ooh, go on then. Just the one, mind you.’
Finn grinned. ‘Way to go, you rebel. Right, Ms Bresson – there are two pubs in the delightful village of Albermarle, but one’s for guests only so I’m barred, which means it’s going to have to be The Fox, just down the side street there – it’s where all the estate workers go for a pint, and closest thing Albermarle’s got to a dive. Landlord’s an absolute shitehawk, but at least he’ll sell me beer.’ He began to lead the way, then paused. ‘Oh, and you’re buying, on account of me not being allowed to carry cash.’
*****
According to the peeling enamel plaque that nestled into the luxuriant ivy on the wall, The Fox and Grapes had been a public house for over three hundred and fifty years, and was rumoured to have been the base for a plot against King Charles the Second. It certainly provided enough low beams and shadowed nooks for any number of conspirators to conceal themselves, which matched my mood perfectly.
The perfume of stale beer and decades of cigarette smoke assailed us as we walked into the barroom. A dilapidated jukebox stood against the wall, obscuring the last picture in a set that portrayed dogs playing snooker, and the carpet by the bar had worn away to nothing. Definitely off the tourist trail.
Four of the youths from the lakeside now continued their observations from a pool table by the leaded window. Dust-laden shafts of light illuminated their stares as they contemplated our little party, and I was desperate to find our own dark corner where we could hide.
The asinine sniggers began again as we stood at the bar. At first I assumed that it was just another example of the attention Albermarle Hall’s permanent residents received whenever they dared venture into civilisation, but one ginger haired youth – whose bone structure suggested a particularly stagnant gene pool – was grinning inanely at Finn. ‘Must’ve been a good night, mate!’ he spluttered, and pointed his pool cue at Finn’s back.
‘Turn around,’ I ordered, and as Finn obeyed, Henry visibly paled.
Finn’s thin t-shirt was turning dark red across the shoulders as blood seeped through the cloth.
I winced. ‘Looks like you’ve reopened old wounds.’
‘Ah, fuck. Let’s go.’
‘Yeah, time to get back in your gimp mask,’ the mouthy red-haired kid added, to the great amusement of his friends.
‘We’re staying put.’ I strode over to the bar, where the landlord was pretending to rearrange a row of pint glasses so he could get a better view of the drama.
I hated the man the moment I set eyes on him. Decades of sampling his own wares had given the man the gut of a sumo wrestler and the waxy complexion of a drowned corpse, and as I approached he gave me a stare that peeled away my vest top. In any other circumstances I wouldn’t have ventured within a mile of the old letch.
‘Can I help you, love?’ he asked, his eyes fixed at chest height.
I supposed that his breast fixation at least reduced the risk of recognition. ‘Do you have a side room?’
‘Yeah. Down the hall.’
‘And may we use it?’
‘Private parties only. Sorry.’ He gave a leer that was far from apologetic.
I felt Finn’s hand on my shoulder. ‘Lili, c’mon, just leave it…’
I ignored him and picked up a dog-eared, beer-stained leaflet from the bar: Fox and Grapes – Room Rate’s. I began to read.
‘You going to order or what, love?’
I let him wait for another minute, then reached into my pocket and pushed five carefully folded twenty pound notes across the bar. ‘There. One private room for the rest of the day.’ I gave the corpulent man a frigid smile. ‘With waiter service, according to your classy, beautifully punctuated little brochure here.’ I picked up half of Finn’s load of bags. ‘So that’s a double vodka and tonic for me, a pint of Stella for him,’ I nodded at Finn, ‘and a large vodka martini for James Bond there. Whenever you’re ready.’ I threw down another twenty. ‘That should cover it.’