by Anne Barwell
"Interesting reasoning," Tomas remarked, agreeing with it at least in principle, even if it meant he was no closer to learning the truth.
"Damn convenient, more like," Donovan mumbled, folding the stamps carefully so they fit into his wallet. He glanced at his watch. "If we hurry we can get a beer before we need to go back. I seem to remember you owe me one."
"I seem to remember I don't." Tomas's stomach growled. "I might consider it, though, if this pub has decent meals."
Donovan grinned. "Yeah, they do. One of Tricia's pies and a decent pint of Guinness and I'm happy."
"Pies?" Tomas gave Edward a nod of thanks. "Please tell me they have more on the menu than pies." He'd done research on what went into some of the commercial ones once for an article he'd written for a university magazine. It wasn't a magazine he particularly wished to be associated with nor the article he'd wanted to write, but it had helped toward that week's rent. However, he now had an aversion to anything that combined meat and pastry. Fieldwork, the editor had said. Testing and eating pies of all shapes and ingredients, he'd meant.
"Steak and kidney." Donovan ticked off on his fingers as he waved to Edward and walked out the door Tomas had already opened. "Steak and cheese." He licked his lips. "Hmm, and steak and mushroom. Her steak and mushroom pies are to die for."
"I bet they are." Tomas shuddered, wondering if the village had a local chip shop. Surely the pub would at least sell those small bags of peanuts which might keep him going until he could find some real food. "I don't suppose they sell anything else?" he asked hopefully, wondering if he held his nose and closed his eyes he might be able to imagine the pies were really something else. Of course there was also the option of picking off the pastry top and fishing around the inside for whatever lurked beneath.
"She also does a real good shepherd's pie," Donovan said, adjusting the collar of his jacket against the fine spits of rain which were beginning to fall again. Tomas shrugged down farther into his jumper, deciding this would be the last time he ventured into the village without his jacket. He missed the fleecy lining in particular, his mind casting back to the warmth there had been in the sun just mere hours ago.
"There's that pie word again," Tomas snorted. "How far is this pub?" He glanced up and down both sides of the street as they walked away from the post office, Donovan leading the way.
Donovan shook his head, amused. "It's not a pie--" He paused. "--exactly, and you've obviously had a bad experience." He eyed Tomas up and down for a moment. It was unnerving. "We'll have to do something about that."
"I don't like them," Tomas said firmly. "Pastry brings back very bad memories of some research I did once. I'd prefer to avoid anything even vaguely associated with it."
"Pastry?" Donovan looked blank for a moment before he pointed to the wooden building up ahead which appeared to be their destination. "Shepherd's pies don't have pastry. You need to try one of these. Buy me that beer and I'll get you one of Tricia's pies in return." He grinned. "I'm a reasonable kind of guy, and for this I'll compromise, as you're in sad need of a decent education."
"How self-sacrificing of you," muttered Tomas dryly, looking both ways before they crossed the road to the pub. He wasn't sure why he bothered, as there wasn't a car in sight, just an old lady on a very wobbly bicycle. At least she would not be the risk to pedestrians Mikey had been. A cat dived out onto the road, barely missing her front wheel as she swerved, one hand ringing the bell attached to the brightly colored cane basket strapped to the handlebars. A very loud, unladylike curse filled the air.
Donovan grinned, following Tomas's line of sight. "You haven't had the honor of meeting old Mrs. McPherson yet either, huh?"
"Thank God." Tomas shifted his attention to the sign above the double doors of the building in front of them proclaiming it to be "The Worthington." Smaller letters informed him that it had been established in 1818 by someone called Lucius Worthington, Esq.
There was a snigger beside him. "You'd better not let her hear that," Donovan warned. "While it's okay for her to swear like a sailor, take the Lord's name in vain and you'll get rapped over the knuckles with whatever she has handy. She takes her job as local church organist very seriously. Drives the local minister crazy, although I think it's just a cover for the fact he's got it bad for her."
Taking a moment to stare at Donovan, Tomas digested this latest piece of information. The rumors he'd always heard about small-town, or in this case village, gossip were apparently true. "I think I could do with that beer now," he said hurriedly, not wanting to dwell on that idea in the slightest, especially as he had argued with Kathleen that they only existed in those books she kept trying to inflict on him. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, glancing around his new surroundings, letting his senses drink in the mixture of warmth, inviting smells, and the roaring fire in the hearth at the far corner of the large room.
A black and white collie was lying at the feet of an elderly man who was nursing a beer at a table under one of the windows. The dog lifted its head, looked at Tomas, whined, but didn't move. It seemed familiar, and Tomas searched his recent memories to try and place as to why.
"Hey, Kip." Donovan crossed the room, dropped to one knee, and scratched the dog between the ears, ignoring the other patrons who for the most part seemed to dismiss his presence in turn. One of the women talking animatedly two tables down stopped, glanced at him, and then returned to her conversation. The dog whined again, giving a sharp bark. "How are you doing, boy?"
"Fine, considering you nearly ran both of us over," the elderly gentleman snorted. "I knew it wasn't Heidi driving that thing." The snort turned into a grin, and he tapped the table with the end of his shepherd's crook. "Take a weight off if you want until young Craig decides to serve you."
Tomas hung back by the door, letting his eyes linger on the room. New places, especially those with character like this one, were to be savored. The pub was fairly old, and the fireplace, with its intricate carved mantel, looked as though it could have been the original from when the building had been constructed. The diamond pattern in the wood was echoed in the coarse felt carpet on the floor, the fawn-colored shapes alternating against a cream background. In contrast, the blue padded material cushions on the barstools, although pale, broke the old-fashioned feel of the place, almost as though a glimpse of modernity had broken through into the past, the same way in which the slivers of sunlight through the windows bathed sections of the polished wooden bar.
Behind the bar, above the oval alcoves which were home to old-fashioned barrels, bottles, and varying-sized glasses, was a selection of horse brasses. Walking over for a closer look, Tomas peered at them at best as he could, trying to remember what he'd read about them online a few months previously. He had been fascinated by them at the time, especially some of the legends attached to the early stories of them, after seeing one referred to in a book he'd been reading while researching something else. It was weird how he'd often become caught up in a piece of information that had nothing to do with what he'd started out looking for, to the extent that it fueled whatever he ended up working on. His last series had begun that way, the historical drama he'd anticipated turning into a study of human nature and relationships set in a future that had taken shape in his mind over several months.
The Worthington's collection was quite impressive, some older designs ranging from the classical designs associated with early sun worshippers to the more common heart motifs. Some even appeared to be hand-cast; Tomas wondered if they pre-dated the pub itself. One in particular, a circular amulet with a Staffordshire knot in the middle of it, caught his attention, and he edged closer for a better look, wishing for a moment that he could step back into times gone by and see the heavy brass discs displayed as they were meant to be as decoration on the tack of the working horses of the area.
"The board lists the specials for today," Craig, the bartender, informed him, interrupting his train of thought. He was a young man wi
th bleached blond hair, in his early twenties. Another wipe of the bar and he threw the cloth to land in a spot on a shelf behind it. It missed and fell onto the floor.
Donovan grinned at Kip, petted him again, and ambled over to the bar. Helping himself to one of the barstools, he propped both elbows on the counter and patted the seat next to him. "Eating while sitting down is better," he drawled.
Settling himself on the seat Donovan had indicated, Tomas dumped his bag on the ground but still within reach. "Two pints of Guinness," he told Craig. "Donovan's buying lunch."
"You're having the usual?" Craig didn't even bother to wait for a reply but reached into the pie warmer to retrieve whatever the usual was. Putting a good-sized pie, cutlery, and sauce in front of Donovan, Craig disappeared out the back into what looked suspiciously like a kitchen, only pausing to pick up the cloth he'd dropped before.
"Yeah, well, guess I am now." Donovan shook his head, used his knife to cut around the top of the pie, and laid the pastry top to one side of his plate. "And a shepherd's pie for Tomas!" he called out, shaking out a good dollop of Worcestershire sauce onto the pie and mixing it through the exposed meat and vegetables.
"He appears to have forgotten the beers as well," Tomas noticed, watching the contents of Donovan's pie very carefully, as he suspected they were probably related to what would be in his own lunch.
"He'll do that when he's ready." Donovan added salt and pepper before tasting the first mouthful. "Hmm, good as ever," he pronounced.
Voices sounded from the kitchen, one of them slightly raised, and the door opened again. The middle-aged woman looked slightly flustered, but she gave both of them a friendly smile, her large, dangly hoop earrings swinging from side to side. "The shepherd pie's nearly done," she said. "There was a bit of trouble with the kids today and I had to go sort them out, so things are running behind."
"Tricia, Tomas." Donovan paused in his eating to wave his hand. "Tomas's got a few issues about pies and some kind of weird aversion to pastry." He paused. "The kids okay? Brendan hasn't been fighting at school again, has he? I can come have another talk to him if you want me to."
"Brendan's fine. Some kid tried to bully him, and he stood his ground like you told him." Tricia nodded in Tomas's direction. "Nice to meet you, Tomas." She glanced at Donovan. "The name's Patricia. Donovan likes to shorten names, and it doesn't matter how many times I remind him, he just keeps doing it anyway." Turning around for a moment, she retrieved two glasses and poured them each a beer. "As it's your first time in here, Tomas, and you're with Donovan, this one's on the house. The refill you'll have to pay for."
"Trevor, then?" Donovan put down his knife and fork, frowning.
"He wasn't feeling well at school today, and the nurse called me. Nothing to worry about, I've had him looked at by Dr. McKenzie, and his Aunt Margaret's staying with him until I finish here." Worry lines creased her face for a moment before disappearing into an overly bright smile. "Unfortunately we can't always be where we want to be in life, and I need to work today, if only for a few hours." Her voice raised, and she tilted her head back toward the kitchen. "Turn that saucepan down! I can hear it overflowing from out here."
Tomas couldn't help but smirk. It was fairly obvious who was in charge. "It's nice to meet you too, Patricia." Taking a swig of beer, he nodded toward the kitchen. "How much longer will the shepherd's pie be? I had an early breakfast, and my stomach is protesting somewhat." As though on cue, his stomach grumbled loudly. It had been complaining a bit of late, something it usually didn't do.
"One shepherd's pie, as ordered." Craig backed through the door, turning once he'd closed it with one foot to give Tomas a grin. He put the plate down on the bar, together with cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin. "Enjoy." Patricia raised an eyebrow and nodded her head toward the kitchen, and he mock-bowed. "I'm on it, your highness," he said, vanishing back into the kitchen again.
Shaking his head, Tomas unwrapped his knife and fork and poked at the round crockery dish in front of him. Not seeing anything faintly resembling pastry, he took a small forkful to his mouth, closed his eyes, and swallowed, hoping that if he couldn't see it, it might disguise the taste. "Hey, it's not bad," he admitted between that and the next mouthful, opening his eyes again to grab another forkful before shoveling that in as well. Actually, it was very good.
Donovan laughed and shoved the salt, pepper, and sauce at him. "You might want to try these as well, buddy," he said, "if you can slow down long enough."
A whining noise sounded at Tomas's feet, and something brushed against his leg, hot breath panting through his jeans. "Kip!" The old man sounded annoyed. Leaning heavily on his shepherd's crook, he lumbered across the pub floor to retrieve his dog. Kip, for his part, ignored his master and looked up at Tomas with what could only be hope reflected in his big coffee-colored eyes.
"Awww," said Patricia, smiling, resting her elbows on the counter and peering over the edge to the floor. "He's found a new friend."
"A new friend with shepherd's pie," Donovan corrected. Spearing a piece of meat from his own pie with his fork, he flicked the beef cube into the air. Kip jumped up, grabbed it, swallowed, and shifted his attention to Donovan. "See?" Donovan said smugly. "Cupboard love. That dog will do anything for food. Obviously you're not feeding him enough, Eoin."
Eoin snorted. "If you believe that, you'll believe anything. He gets plenty to eat." He gave a low whistle, and Kip's ears pricked up. "Too fat and too well-fed, according to my dear, beloved sister." Donovan rolled his eyes, and Eoin leaned against the counter and gestured at him with one knobbly finger. "Ever since we were youngins, she knew everything and couldn't be told. But still, she's good folk, and that's what counts." He tapped at the side of his nose. "That's what her dearly departed husband always said too, God rest his soul. It was a sad day when he passed away, but still they had forty good years together, which is more than most of us get."
Patricia and Donovan both nodded very solemnly. Tomas's suspicions were already growing as to who Eoin's dear beloved sister might be. This village was growing smaller by the minute, and he doubted whether he would soon be able to sneeze without everyone, his dog, and his sister knowing about it before he'd even finished wiping his nose.
His fork paused midway to his mouth, and a thought struck him. "Alice Finlay," he blurted out.
Three pairs of eyes turned to stare at him. Correction, four. Even Kip seemed interested in the name. Tomas shifted uncomfortably, feeling as though he'd said something he shouldn't. "I saw some of her work," he said quickly, "and Edward wasn't very forthcoming when I asked about her." In fact, in hindsight, Tomas realized that the Postmaster had changed the subject. "I was wondering...." Tomas paused, took a breath, and wiped his hands on his jeans, fighting the urge to squirm as the entire pub seemed to quiet. "Where might I be able to look at more of her paintings?"
"Sketches," Donovan said slowly, after what seemed several long minutes, "and watercolors. There's one hanging in the inn." He grinned suddenly; it was as though a signal had been given to the others in the room, and once again the conversation picked up and carried on as though nothing had happened. "At least I heard there's supposed to be sketches." He shrugged. "I've never seen any. For a so-called famous artist from around here, it's real hard to find anything of her stuff. Heidi tried after we first moved here, as she likes to know the history of places where she's living, but she gave up."
Tomas frowned. Although he hadn't known Heidi long, she had given him the impression very quickly that "giving up" was not a part of her vocabulary. "I don't remember seeing a painting." Surely he would have noticed it if there was one.
"It's on the floor above yours," Donovan said helpfully.
"Oh." Tomas hadn't ventured up there as yet, his mind being preoccupied with other things, or rather another person, since his arrival.
"If you want sketches, I think the family has them," Eoin said in a brisk tone, "but they aren't sharing, and frankly
I wouldn't be interfering. They've been through enough." He lowered his voice. "I heard it broke Elizabeth's heart when they had to sell the house, even though the sale never went through until after she died. It sat vacant for a few years after the last people who were there moved out too. That was before you and Heidi bought it, Donovan." He shrugged, took an enormous handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily, carefully folded it into four quarters and methodically into eighths before replacing it in his pocket.
"Yeah, it seemed way forlorn, or at least that's what Heidi said. The previous owners never did anything for all their plans for the place." Donovan shrugged. "Heidi tends to personalize places, has done ever since I've known her." He drained his glass, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, ignoring the disapproving look Patricia gave him for the action. "Speaking of which, we need to think about getting back, as she wants that damn pink thing before two. She has things to do and places to be, though she wouldn't say who with or where."
"A woman has to have some secrets, Donovan," Patricia grinned. "Where's the mystique if you guys know everything about us?"
Donovan snorted. "Yeah, well, it's not like she's my girlfriend or anything or ever likely to be." He stretched, joints popping loudly.
"It's the principle of it," Tomas said sagely. "Or so my sister has always said." He had mostly ignored Kathleen when she monologued about the differences between men and women, especially as those speeches usually followed something he had done and, according to her, shouldn't have. Taking a final forkful of pie, he chewed slowly, savoring the taste, and then washed it down with the last of his beer.
"Sisters are good at that," Eoin agreed, placing a couple of coins on the counter. "I'll have another beer, thank you, Patricia, especially if these boys are going to desert you."
"We're not deserting her," Donovan protested, getting up off the stool, "although we do have to go if Tomas has finished his lunch." He glanced at Tomas's empty plate. "I think you missed a bit."