CHAPTER 1
West Country cider. Dry on the palate, occasionally fruity, and potent when drunk to excess
‘You our new landlady then?’ The old guy wheezed as Livvy handed over his pint of cider. Nervously tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, she waited for the inevitable. It came.
‘Bit young, ain’t you?’
Refusing to rise to the bait, she smiled and gave him his change. He shuffled off, followed by his equally ancient dog, to sit in the darkest corner of the pub.
‘Welcome to Lullbury Bay and The Runaways.’ It was another male voice. Younger this time, friendlier, with a twist of humour and slightly northern.
She turned to the customer who had just come in. He was waiting at the other end of the bar, a rolled-up broadsheet under his arm.
‘Don’t mind Old Pete. One of Dorset’s most eccentric characters. He’s quite friendly once you get to know him.’ He nodded to the collie at the old man’s feet. ‘Can’t say the same for Skip, though.’ Grinning, he added: ‘A politic biscuit works wonders there.’ He stretched over a hand and she shook it. ‘Mark Cavanagh. I’m in most evenings when I’m in town so I suppose I’ll be another of your regulars.’
‘Lovely to meet you. Olivia Smith. New owner for my sins. Call me Livvy.’
‘Hello Livvy Smith. Pint of bitter when you’re ready and a packet of salt and vinegar.’
Livvy busied herself pulling his pint of beer, eyeing Mark surreptitiously. Thank goodness at least one of her customers was friendly. It had been quiet since she’d taken over but then maybe seaside pubs in October were? Apart from a group of braying businessmen, hardly anyone had been in and, until tonight, no one had introduced themselves.
She overfilled Mark’s pint glass with clumsy fingers and put it on the bar towel to absorb the drips before giving it to him. In his late thirties maybe, dressed in a nondescript grey sweater and jeans, he’d perched on a stool and had spread out his newspaper. She liked the way his thick red-brown hair swooped down as he bent over the small print.
‘Put your glasses on, why don’t you?’ Pete yelled from his corner, making Skip growl.
Looking up, Mark took his pint. ‘Thanks.’ He flipped open a designer case and put on some tortoiseshell specs. ‘Vanity is a terrible thing.’ He wiggled his brows.
Livvy liked him more for admitting it. Reaching into the box of crisps behind her, she passed some over.
‘Are you going to change the name?’ He ripped open the packet and began to eat enthusiastically.
‘Of the pub? I haven’t really had time to think about it.’ Livvy screwed up her face. ‘I can’t say The Runaways is the most traditional of names.’
‘The last chain who owned the place renamed it.’ He took a swig of beer and made an appreciative noise. ‘Supposed to stem from back in the nineteenth century. Forbidden love.’ He frowned, obviously thinking. ‘Young couple met here before they ran away to be together, or so the story goes.’
‘Don’t you be boring the girl,’ Pete shouted.
‘If you’re going to join in the conversation, come and do it here rather than yelling at us,’ Mark called back.
‘Happy here, I’ll have you know. Although another cider wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘I’ll bring it over.’ Livvy began to pour it. ‘What happened to them? The young couple I mean?’
‘No idea. Tragedy probably. Isn’t that how those stories always end? Jason might know. He’s into local history. Pops in here sometimes.’
Livvy took Pete his pint, noticing how her feet stuck to the carpet. She looked down at the worn paisley pattern. That would have to go. Glancing at the dated hunting prints resplendent against the pink flock wallpaper and the cerise frilly lamp shades, the same thought occurred.
‘There you go, Pete.’ She put the cider down, keeping a wary eye on the collie which had bared its teeth.
‘Thank you, my lovely. Put it on the tab, will you. I’ll be having another before I goes.’
‘I’m not doing tabs,’ she said firmly.
The old man scowled. She half expected him to bare his teeth in solidarity with his dog. ‘No tabs you say. What’s all that about then?’
Livvy folded her arms, ready for her first battle. ‘New rule of the house.’
‘Where do you think I’m going to run off to, with my arthritis? And at my age too. I’m eighty-three.’
