Brenda was down the other end of the bar taking orders from a group of lads who looked a motley crew. They’d come in off the street a few ticks ago yahooing, and the young fellow with an earring in his nose and a pink veil atop his head gave the game away. They were on a stags night, over from the mainland for a long weekend and determined to leer up to the best of their ability. It was obvious they were already three sheets to the wind.
Isabel began stacking the dishwasher, and the next time she glanced over the groom was tossing a nip down his throat while Brenda was busy pulling pints for his mates. The group of larrikins were jostling one another loudly, and she debated offering a helping hand, but knew she’d be called over if need be. She was better served up her end of the bar and in keeping the tables cleared and wiped. Besides, Brenda was more than capable of handling a bunch of lager louts in their boxers and boots, and closing the dishwasher door; she set it to run before grabbing a cloth.
The stags do lads were now clutching their pint glasses and attempting to weave their way over to a table another group had just exited. Isabel sighed. She’d best go and clear it, and cloth in hand she lifted the flip top once more, pushing through the crowded space. Fellow drinkers raised their glasses as the boys camped it up, enjoying the attention their semi-nude state was garnering. There were shouted congratulations to the groom to be and remarks about life sentences and such over the thud of the jukebox. Isabel had seen it all before. Hilarious, she thought, sighing again. It was going to be a long night.
‘Sorry boys,’ she said a moment later. ‘Just let me squeeze in, and I’ll get rid of these glasses for you.’ She bent over and scooped up the glasses with a now well-practiced hand. ‘Oi!’ A glass slipped from her hand as she felt a sharp pinch on her bottom. It smashed, splintering as it caught the edge of the table and she heard laughter. Her blood boiled. ‘Hey, not funny! Keep your hands to yourself and stay away from that mess,’ Isabel sniped annoyed at their childish behaviour. She’d have to go and get a dustpan and brush to clear up the broken glass pronto before one of these plonkers cut themselves.
‘Ooh, Katy’s angry.’
She assumed they meant Katy Perry. It wasn’t the first time she’d been likened to the singer with her whacky choice of hair colours. Charity’s comment of the other day sprang to mind. Ignoring them, she moved off with a tight grip on the rest of the glasses, only to feel a hand grab and squeeze her backside this time. Okay a joke was a joke, she thought, but that was plain offensive. She turned around ready to let rip, and the words died in her throat. Rhodri was pushing his way toward the cluster of clowns who were all bent over laughing as they passed the blame from one to the other. His expression said he meant business.
‘Hey, mate,’ Rhodri shouted over the pulsating beat. ‘I think you owe the lady here an apology.’ He glowered over the culprit, a spotty chap who barely filled his boxers. He looked young, Isabel thought—barely legal, and if she hadn’t of been so aggrieved, she’d have found the multiple emotions crossing his face as he weighed up his options amusing. It was like reading a book watching him toss up on whether he should tough it out to look big in front of his mates. He was tempted to puff up and prod the big Welsh man back but knew he’d likely wind up with a fat lip. He’d get a slap around the head too when he got home and was forced to own up to his mum as to what he’d been up to on his weekend away. He hesitated for a couple of beats, or, he could do the right thing and say sorry. He took the latter option, and Isabel accepted his apology eager to put a halt to any further altercation.
‘Thanks,’ she mouthed to Rhodri, before shoving her way back to the bar to dig out the dustpan and brush, she didn’t want any injuries on her watch. Rhodri hadn’t finished though. When she returned he took the cleaning apparatus from her and shoved it toward the puny chested punter. ‘Here you go, son. It’s time you put that hand of yours to some good use. Clean that mess up.’
‘Al right mate. We’re out for a good night, not a fight night,’ he muttered not keen to argue with the Welsh man. He took the pan and brush and set about clearing up the shards of glass while his mates made a few half-hearted jests at his expense. They were a few degrees less boisterous, and Isabel guessed they’d clean their drinks up and that would be the last they’d see of that little drunken group of yobs for the night. They were already edging their way towards the door. She smiled her gratefulness at Rhodri.
‘Come on. I think you just earned yourself a pint on the house.’
Chapter 9
The next morning Isabel hung up the last of her clothes and shut the door on the wardrobe catching sight of herself in the mirrored panels as she did so. She’d dressed in jeans, boots and her favourite pink T-shirt with its yellow Hard Rock Café logo, bought on a particularly memorable night out on the Gold Coast. She had an aqua coloured cardigan she could shove in her bag if it got nippy too. She scooped her hair back into a ponytail, securing it with the band on her wrist and eyed the sore, weepy patch on her neck covered in greasy salve with distaste. A scarf day, she decided fishing it out of her bag.
It was yellow silk, and the flecks of bluish green in it, she liked to think matched her eyes. If not her eyes then her hair, and definitely her cardi she thought, tying it at a jaunty angle. That was better, and the silk was gentle against her irritated skin. She stood in front of the wardrobe mirror giving herself a final once over—she’d do. It was Monday morning and today was the day she would go to see Constance at Sea Vistas. Would she be Ginny’s Constance? A shiver coursed through her. It was still too early to call on her, but in the meantime, a cup of tea would go down a treat. Hmm so would something to eat. Perhaps she’d make a brew and take a cuppa down to Rhodri; he’d said to make herself at home, but did that include helping herself to his milk and tea bags? It was all very murky waters this business of flat sharing, she thought, chewing on her nails before deciding to make the tea.
He was very neat; her first impressions yesterday were reconfirmed as she opened the overhead cupboards and peered inside in search of tea bags. She hoped he didn’t have OCD. The contents of the cupboard, however, were well ordered but not in perfect alignment, so she breathed easier locating the tea bags. She filled the kettle and flicked it on, wondering if he was a bit of a health nut as she waited for it to boil. That she knew nothing about him was clear, but seedy, nutty things had been abundant in the cupboard.
Would he have sugar given all those healthy seedy things? Probably not she decided taking a risk and adding milk to his mug, hoping he wasn’t the type to have a squeeze of lemon in his tea. She picked up the two steaming brews and carried them downstairs being careful not to spill any.
‘Knock, knock,’ Isabel said, raising the two mugs she was carrying as he looked up from where he was sitting at the counter staring at his open laptop.
‘You read my mind; I was just thinking it was time for a cuppa. Cheers.’ He took the proffered mug from her, and she placed her tea down on the counter. ‘Did you sleep all right?’
‘Yes, it’s a comfy bed. Um, I wasn’t sure if you took milk or not, so I took a gamble.’
‘You hit the jackpot. Jaffa Cake, or is it too early?’ He smiled and went up in her estimation as he produced a packet of the chocolate treats from the drawer beneath the counter. Not too much of a health nut then!
‘It’s never too early for Jaffa Cakes.’ Isabel took one and munched it down glancing around the gallery. It was busy given the early hour but then if the blue skies she’d spied outside her bedroom window were anything to go by the day was going to be a corker. Holidaymakers would be out and about wanting to make the most of it. She rubbed at the crook of her arm, perhaps the sun and salt air would work some magic on her eczema. She distracted herself by checking out the customers wandering around the gallery. She’d always enjoyed people watching.
‘Honeymooners,’ she whispered out the corner of her mouth, her gaze indicating the young couple rifling through the postcard prints near the door.’
; ‘How do you know? ‘Rhodri looked bemused.
‘Sappy expressions on their faces.’
He laughed. ‘You’re right I reckon. Him?’ Rhodri asked playing the game as he nodded toward a middle-aged man with a T-shirt stretched tight over his belly. He was trailing behind a woman, his wife presumably, and looked like he would rather be somewhere else.
Isabel grinned and whispered. ‘She’s got him on a strict diet, and all he can think about is how he is going to sneak away and hit the Mr Whippy parked along the waterfront.’
Rhodri laughed loudly this time, causing the honeymooners to look over at him disconcerted. ‘You’re good.’
Isabel spotted a big man, clad in the casual and unmistakable clobber of a tourist gazing up at a framed painting of a white-sailed ship in a harbour. He had a camera slung around his neck, but it was the cap on his head with Florida in white stitching that gave the game away really. Indecision was written all over his face.
‘A sale?’ Isabel mouthed at Rhodri who mouthed back. ‘I hope so.’
She couldn’t help herself; she’d done a one-day salesmaker course when she’d had a brief stint selling mobile phones before she left for Australia. You had to overcome your natural hesitation at talking to a stranger and put your friendliest foot forward. There was no room for being shy when it came to closing a deal, and Isabel had developed a knack of stepping a little outside of herself when it came to dealing with the public. It served her well pulling pints too, and instead of clumsy, anxious Isabel, she became confident, chatty Isabel. It felt like that was who she was supposed to be all the time, but she didn’t know how to be that girl when she didn’t have a role to hide behind.
This was no good, though Rhodri couldn’t just sit here sipping tea, she thought. He needed to sell the painting to the customer. A bit of sales pitter–patter was what was needed, she decided making up her mind. She put her tea down and leaving a bemused Rhodri; she moseyed up alongside the customer. ‘Hello there,’ she beamed, startling him out of his reverie.
The tourist looked bemusedly at the young woman with strange coloured hair who’d appeared next to him before replying. ‘Hi there.’
Yes indeed, thought Isabel, an American twang. She peered at the card under the canvas. ‘I see you’re admiring, Tidal Goodbye. Do you know Cowes, sir?’
‘We visited it yesterday. It sure was a pretty spot.’
‘You’re here on holiday?’ she stated the obvious.
‘Sure am. I’m with my wife, but she’s around the corner looking for presents to take home for the grand–kiddies. We’re following in my ancestors’ footsteps. Hale’s the family name.’
He looked at her as if expecting her to know all members of the Hale family from the Isle of Wight, personally before continuing. ‘Yep, we sailed from Cowes on the Hercules of Rye to Virginia in 1610.’ He announced this loudly and proudly, another clue as to where he hailed from. ‘Of course, we spread ourselves far and wide; I live in Florida these days. The Sunshine State.’
‘Ah, but if your family comes from Wight originally then that means you’re practically local!’ Isabel beamed. ‘And this beautiful artwork would be a reminder of your brave ancestors sailing forth to embrace a new life in a new world. A permanent visual treat to hang on your wall at home to hark back to your roots.’ She chewed her bottom lip hoping she hadn’t overdone it. The man turned his attention back to the painting. Only now, Isabel hoped he wasn’t admiring it because of its moody hues and delicate brushstrokes. No, now he saw the Hale family sailing forth leaving their home for adventures in a new frontier. In fact, that could be the the same Hercules of Rye leaving the shores of Wight for all he knew, dang it, that could be his great-granddaddy six times removed up on the prow there.
‘Hey there,’ he called over to Rhodri, ‘this here young lady has sold me on this fine piece of art. It’s part of my heritage, a conversational piece, that’s what it is. So how we’re going to set about getting it back home to the U–nited States?’
͠
Rhodri saw the American to the door, a satisfied customer whose artwork would be couriered to his home address in Florida. Isabel was hoping his wife managed to see her husband’s ancestors on the ship too and not the hefty price tag attached.
‘Well, you sure earned your keep. That was impressive sales work,’ he said to Isabel sitting back down and picking up the Jaffa Cakes. ‘Here have another. Sod it, have the whole pack!’
Isabel grinned and helped herself, she shouldn’t really, but she was a sucker for the sweet treats. The day was off to a good start. She sipped her tea and shot a sideways glance at Rhodri. She knew nothing about him other than that he had fancied a change of scene from his life in London and Pier View House had been a prime opportunity for him. Well, there was no time like the present, she decided still feeling rather bold after her painting sale. ‘So then, Rhodri, tell me a bit about yourself.’
He snorted. ‘You might as well have said, “so do you come here often?”’
She blushed. He was right it had sounded like a corny pickup line. ‘Sorry it came out wrong. What I meant to say was given our living circumstances it would be nice to know a bit more about your life before you came to Wight.’ She tripped over the words.
‘Ah, well so long as you weren’t trying to chat me up, that’s all right then.’
She stared at him hard; it was difficult to tell if he was having her on or not. His expression as he sipped at the contents of his mug gave nothing away.
‘I grew up in Pontypridd in Wales.’
Isabel had only been to Wales once, and that was on a school trip to Cardiff. ‘And were you always interested in art?’
‘Always, my finger painting when I was in the Pontypridd infants was by far and away the most superior of all the other five-year-olds.’
‘Really?’
‘No, I’m teasing you, but yes I always loved art. Painting was a passion right from when I was a lad in short pants. I was, my mam used to say, a sensitive boy and it was my saving grace where Dad was concerned that I also liked rugby. Mam and Dad weren’t best keen when I said I wanted to make a career in art, they’d have preferred a doctor or a lawyer, but they got over it okay in the end.’
Isabel nodded. Her parents had held hopes of university for her until they’d seen her leaving results. She’d only ever wanted to sing though, and she was not one of life’s academics. So, instead of university, she’d embarked on a wide and varied career in drifting.
‘I did an art history degree at college in Cardiff, and I was fortunate enough to receive an apprenticeship at Christie's in London. I learned the art auction trade from the bottom up before branching out into opening my gallery and becoming a dealer.’
‘What about your, painting though?’
He shrugged. ‘I got a taste of the high life. I liked living a certain way and painting wasn’t going to provide me with the money I needed to fund that lifestyle. Besides which I’d seen first-hand how cutthroat the art world is, it can be brutal, and I suppose I lacked the courage to put my work out there. A classic case of fear of failure. Until one day I took my blinkers off or rather had them taken off for me, a messy break–up, and concluded I wasn’t that twenty-one-year-old leering it up in London anymore. That life had long since gotten stale; it was time to get back to what I wanted to do in the first place which was appreciate art, paint and make a living at the same time. Fortunately, I was lucky enough to be in a position this time around to take a gamble.’
‘So you leaped faith and came to Wight.’ She smiled, feeling clever at her play on the gallery’s name.
‘Exactly.’ He looked away, and Isabel sensed there was more to his story than he was saying, but she could tell by the closed expression on his face that he’d told her all he was going to. It was time to move on.
‘Well, I think it’s probably a respectable time of the day now for me to call in at Sea Vistas, Wish me luck.’ She felt a nervous kind of excitement at what lay ahead.
The shadow lifted from Rhodri’s face. ‘Good luck. I can’t wait to hear if my Constance is the woman you’re looking for.’
͠
Isabel inhaled the seaside smells as she weaved her way down the Esplanade passing locals going about their daily business and the clusters of visitors. It was easy to spot the early holidaymakers who had a certain dawdling demeanour that instantly gave them away. They were here for a shoulder season cheaper break and to beat the crowds that descended in the manic summer months.
She sidestepped a melting blob of ice–cream and pictured a small child wailing at such a catastrophic loss. As she rounded the bend in the waterfront past the shops, the grand building that was Sea Vistas Retirement Home swept into view. She admired the old girl’s beautiful stonework; her soaring chimneys looked as though they were grazing the sky. Sea Vistas architecture spoke of bygone days. She drew closer and saw that the grounds too were expansive and well–manicured.
The flower beds would soon be a mass of spring flowers, she thought, pausing to soak up the scene. She couldn’t stand here waxing lyrical all day like Alan Titchmarsh she decided, carrying on down the footpath. Her tummy reminded her she was anxious for the woman she hoped she was about to meet to be her Constance, as she’d come to think of her.
PART TWO
Humulus lupulus/Wild Hops
Uses:
Mostly used for its sedative like effect, therefore, aiding sleeplessness and restlessness.
Improves appetite.
Antibacterial and antifungal.
Ingested it is said to benefit menstruation/menopausal symptoms.
Can be made into an infusion tincture for a soothing effect or more commonly as a hops pillow.
The Promise Page 7