Page 82 of One Night on the Island

‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’ll be okay for a while.’

She narrows her eyes at me. ‘You better dedicate that fucking book to me.’

And then, in true Ali style, she blows me a kiss and slams her laptop shut. No lingering goodbyes for that woman. She’d get on well with the seabirds at the lodge.

I sit in the quiet of the closed-up café, contemplative. Delta made me an offer I couldn’t refuse this morning. Raff owned this café, and the pub too; both places now belong to Dolores, who in turn has handed them straight to her daughter – Delta laughingly said it was to make sure she’d stick around and there’s probably some truth in that. Closer to the truth, though, is that she was never planning to leave anyway, and this small new property portfolio has set her up for the future.

‘Stay at the pub,’ she said. ‘The flat up there is empty now. Raff’s staff are going to manage the place between them, but I could really use some help in the café, just a few hours a day. My hands are kind of full of this baby.’

I look around the simple whitewashed café, remembering back to the first day I came in here. I loved how the light streamed in through the stained-glass window, casting rainbows across the stripped wooden floor, the radio in the background. It only opens eleven till two in these darkest months, it should be just enough of an income if I’m frugal. I don’t need much, especially here. So I’m staying a while. The relief of not having to leave feels as if someone has taken their hands off my shoulders. I turn back to the computer, not looking forward to telling Mum I won’t be home for Christmas after all.

Barney isn’t at all like his distant relative, he’s whippet-wiry with a mop of white-blond curls, a perpetual traveller’s tan and wooden beads around his tattooed wrist. He trudged into the pub just now, dragging his battered rucksack behind him with one hand, his other arm bandaged against his chest.

‘Shark bite,’ he grins, pulling up a stool at the bar beside Delta. ‘I remember you. Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz, school production, mid nineties.’

She moves the sleeping baby from one arm to the other. ‘I remember you too. Glinda the Good Witch.’

He shrugs his good shoulder. ‘There were no little blonde girls, what can I say.’ He downs a good third of the Guinness I’ve poured him. ‘I heard about old Raff over on the mainland.’

Delta sighs and raises her glass – tonic in a G&T glass – to the photo of Raff tucked into the mirror behind the bar. I doubt a man has ever been more toasted.

‘Funeral’s on Thursday,’ she says.

‘I can pull a decent pint if you need someone behind the bar,’ Barney says, looking at his glass. I feel slightly put out; I know my Guinness-pouring skills aren’t top notch but I’m getting there.

‘With one arm?’ Delta says, doubtful.

Barney slides off his stool and nips behind the bar, reaching down a glass from the overhead rack and flicking the tap with an air of confidence that comes only from experience. We watch in silence until he places the admittedly perfect pint on the bar and then bows with a small flourish of his good arm.

‘Barman of the world,’ he says. ‘Santorini, Sydney, Sweden. You name it, I’ve probably mixed a mojito there.’

‘Anywhere that doesn’t begin with S?’ I laugh because he’s infectious.

‘Salvation?’ he says, crossing his fingers. His pale blue-grey eyes dance with trouble; I think he’ll fit right in behind this bar, if Delta sees fit.

‘Not much call for mojitos round these parts,’ Delta says, testy.

‘You haven’t had a mojito until you’ve had one of mine,’ he says. ‘Where’s your mint?’

‘In a jar in the fridge with all the other condiments.’ She’s putting him through his paces, but I can hear amusement behind her dry tone.

‘I’m Cleo,’ I say.

‘She’s a writer,’ Delta says.

‘Is she now?’ Barney says, looking at me. ‘And what do you write?’

‘Um, magazine articles in London, until this morning. I just jacked in my job.’ His eyes widen, interested. ‘I was supposed to go back home on the boat you came over on, but I’ve decided to stay instead.’

‘To finish her novel,’ Delta adds.

‘Well, that’s a story I need to hear more of,’ Barney says. ‘And who’s this fella?’ He nods towards Delta’s baby.

Her face softens as she looks down. He really is the most angelic child, peaches for cheeks and a shock of his mama’s black hair.

‘He doesn’t have a name yet,’ Delta says. ‘He’s new. Born in Raff’s sitting room through there, three days ago.’

‘And you’re propping the bar up already,’ Barney says. ‘Good on ya, I like your style.’

---