Page 59 of Secrets and Seashells at Rainbow Bay
‘Ooh, you’re a tricky one, Fairy Godmother, aren’t you?’ I say, lifting the half-empty bottle, first to top up Benji’s glass and then my own.
‘Cinders, you never said a truer word,’ Benji says, lifting his glass and toasting me. ‘You never said a truer word.’
Twenty-three
‘What can I get you?’ Tom asks me on Friday night as we enter the pub and weave our way through the throngs of people up to the bar.
‘I’ll have an orange juice, please,’ I say, looking up at him.
Tom pulls a face. ‘Really? I can’t tempt you into anything stronger?’
I’m not usually a big drinker. In fact, the few glasses of wine I had with Benji the other night was more alcohol than I’d drunk in a very long time.
‘All right then, er . . . ’ I scan the bottles behind the bar. ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, please.’
‘Gin and tonic coming right up – any particular type of gin, or for that matter tonic?’
I shake my head. ‘Nope, anything is fine.’
Tom pushes himself a little further forward, but doesn’t appear to have any difficulty in catching Rachel’s eye amongst all the other people waiting to be served at the bar.
While he gets our drinks I take a quick look around. The outside of the Chesterford Arms looks much like any other country pub might – a small whitewashed building with a thatched roof and a pub sign hanging outside with a painting of a castle – my castle – on it.
Inside the décor is modern and clean with occasional prints of picturesque Northumbrian vistas hanging on the ivory-coloured walls. There are exposed timbers above me with a few named silver tankards hanging from them – presumably for the regulars – and hanging from the wall timbers are various brass objects to add to the traditional feel.
The pub is so crammed right now that there’s not a seat to be had anywhere – from the cosy little booths around the outside walls to the bar stools that surround the large U-shaped bar.
‘Excuse me, love,’ a man says, pushing past me. ‘Oh, Lady Chesterford – I do beg your pardon; I didn’t recognise you.’
‘Hello, Bill, how are you?’ I ask as Bill stares in astonishment at me. ‘And it’s Amelia, remember?’
‘Yes . . . yes, of course. I’m very well, Lady . . . I mean, Miss Amelia. What are you doing down here?’
‘I’m having a drink with Tom,’ I say, gesturing back to where Tom is still waiting patiently at the bar.
‘Oh, Isee. . . ’ Bill winks at me and taps his nose secretively. ‘Say no more.’
‘No, Bill, it’s not like that,’ I protest. But suddenly I’m not the only one to be recognised.
‘Bill, mate!’ a burly man says, slapping Bill on the back. ‘How goes it? You finished that moneysucker up at the castle yet? Has her ladyship flushed any more money down the drain this week?’
‘Er . . . ’ Bill, looking horrified, glances wildly from the man to me and then back again.
‘What’s up, mate?’ the man asks him. ‘Dodgy curry? Hello, love,’ he says jovially to me. ‘Haven’t seen you around here before.’
‘Les, let me introduce you,’ Bill says, grinning manically. ‘Thisis Amelia – the new Lady Chesterford.’
‘Hi, Amel— What? Bloody hell-fire, I mean . . . oh boll— Greetings, your majesty,’ Les says finally, and in his panic he gives a small bow.
‘Amelia is just fine,’ I say, grinning at him. ‘Pleased to meet you, Les; and what do you do around here?’
‘I . . . I’m a farmer.’
‘Oh, what sort? I mean, what do you specialise in?’
‘Livestock,’ Les says, finally finding his feet on a topic he feels comfortable with. ‘Cows and pigs mainly. We have a few chickens, too.’
‘Organic?’ I ask, an idea unexpectedly forming.
