by Sam Cullan
Chapter Four
Newington was a bustling market town of some 25,000 people, which made it quite significant in this far-flung corner of England. The central area was pedestrianized, and home to both an indoor and outdoor market. Today was also livestock market day, and although the local farming industry had declined dramatically in recent years, the fact that this centuries-old centre still operated meant that every farm and estate in the county would be represented here. Their numbers were swelled by curious townies who just liked walking between pens filled with sheep, pigs and cattle – a free trip to a domesticated, if smelly, zoo. In the streets, ex-townies who had 'found' country living, plied their trade.
Market Street was stuffed full of stalls covered in pristine white Chinese tablecloths, and pristine Chinese wicker baskets which were stuffed to the brim with jars of jam, chutney, pickles and various other condiments, alongside artistic displays of local wines, vinegar and oils. Sprinklings of pristine yellow straw proved beyond doubt that these were wholesome products, free of nasty chemicals and untainted by corporate blandness. A line of pristine cars and vans covered in expensive plastic banners proclaiming the authenticity of the produce, sheltered the producers - who were tired of standing in the bustling street, or disgusted at the sea of plastic shopping bags hurrying past their piles of environmentally friendly goodies.
Will knew all this, which is why he had parked well away from it. The down-town area of Queen Street housed the genuinely local traders, who could not afford the rents in the town centre. Here you could buy fish landed a few miles away that morning, meat from farms bordering the town, bread and cakes freshly baked on the premises, hand-made garments, jewellery, gifts and books. Here you could get a haircut for under a tenner, as Will did thrice a year, or scour the charity shops for a real bargain. There were plenty of wealthy patrons living here and it seemed only right that their expensive, worn-once garments be utilized in a manner which benefited charities as well as the poorer fashionistas.
Alice looked around the coffee shop. It wasn't like those back home. In fact, it wasn't typical of most British high streets, where uniformly characterless multi-nationals jostled for prime position. Will liked it here, where you could still get some sense of what he understood an old English market town should be. He ushered his date into a corner where he considered she would be safe from attackers. Alice's delicate finger drew a heart shape in the misty window, then she quickly rubbed it out and peered through the blurry space.
Will had his face buried in the menu. “Hungry?”
“Errrr ...” Alice had some reservations about eating in public, but a quick scan of the room seemed to ease her concerns. She counted a dozen or so tables, six of which were bare. No more than eight people, six of them women, were busy sipping tea from flowery china cups or eating small pieces of cake with delicate forks. Alice was the youngest person here, by some considerable distance. Even Will, twice her age, looked out of place. Nobody was looking at them - probably just some father and daughter meeting up for lunch - and most likely nobody here would, in their wildest dreams, be expecting to see a famous actor; so they just didn't see her.
Alice's sparking blue eyes flitted across the menu. “What's a pasty?”
Will laughed. She had pronounced it like it rhymed with 'tasty'.
“A Cornish pasty?”
Will corrected here before she drew too much attention. “Well, it's like a pie, pastry with meat and vegetables - no gravy.” He took a deep breath. He was half-Cornish, and proud of his country. For it was indeed a country, all alone in the furthest south-west corner of England and surrounded only by water, bar a few miles where it bordered his home county. It had its own language, and the people there were different; stocky, hard-working, proud. He wanted to explain the history of the pasty and how it had been hijacked by the English, but thought better of it. Alice was looking inquisitively at him, anticipating more facts.
Will settled for the short version. “You won't get a genuine Cornish pasty outside of Cornwall.” He knew this to be true, having eaten many pasties both inside and outside of Cornwall.
“Does it matter?”
Will looked indignant. “Yes.”
“Sorryeee.”
Will smiled. “Try one if you want, but go for the shortcrust version with steak.”
“Rrrrrright.” Alice was utterly bemused, but willing to play the game. “I'll let you order.”
Will ordered two steak pasties and a pot of tea for two. The youngest waitress, not a day under 65, returned with two cups and saucers rattling in her hands. Three minutes later, she brought some spoons and some knives and forks tightly bound in plain white cotton napkins. Another minute and the milk arrived, along with a stainless steel pot of hot water. Will politely thanked her.
“Looks a bit weak.” Alice was fishing in the pot for a teabag, or something she could identify.
“It's strong enough for water.”
“Oh …” She beamed, a child-like grin sweeping across her face. She had the type of face you could not avoid staring at, not beautiful in the classic way, but as pretty as the prettiest thing you can imagine. Anyone who saw Alice smile would be captivated and fall instantly in love. Will composed himself.
“You'll get used to our quaint customs.”
“I sure hope so. Should we have brought our own teabags?”
Will wasn't sure if this mischievous and talented actress was messing with him.
“Well I have, didn't you?”
Waitress 65 placed a large stainless steel pot of steaming tea between the giggling pair. A significant portion of it landed on the tablecloth. “Just get yur paztees.” Waitress 65 moved away again.
“That's why we have hot water – to top it up.”
Alice covered her laughter with her hand. “Shhh, she'll hear you.”
“I doubt it.”
“Nothing wrong with my hearing, dear.” Waitress 65 plonked a pasty in front of Will. She walked around the table and gently laid Alice's plate in front of her. “There you are dear, enjoy your meal.” She scowled at Will and stomped indignantly away.
“Now I feel awful.”
“And so you should.”
“It's your fault, I'm usually very polite. I'll have to leave a tip.” The thought made Will shudder; waitresses had to earn tips, and this one had nothing to prove now. Alice looked very disapprovingly at him, so he winked to hide the fact he wasn't kidding.
Alice extricated her cutlery and tucked the napkin into her collar. Will winced. “Your serviette goes on your lap.”
“My what?”
Will winced again. “That thing you probably call a napkin. It goes in your lap, not your collar.”
“O-kkkkk … why?”
“Etiquette.”
“Oh, I've heard of that.”
Will was not posh, but he had been brought up properly. He didn't expect the average Brit, let alone Americans, to be well versed in his olde English customs and was very happy to educate them. Alice had quickly sensed an opportunity for mischief and wasn't slow in taking advantage. She’d spent enough time in Britain with posh actors to learn some of the quaint customs, but it wouldn’t hinder her fun. She took Will's empty cup and saucer, and picked up the milk jug.
“Milk first?”
Will wasn't stupid, but her bright young mind had the edge. He scowled.
Alice laughed, shielding her mouth with her hand. “Just messing with ya.” She put down the milk and picked up the teapot. Weak or strong?
“Strong please.”
“OK if I stir it?”
Will nodded. Alice smirked and stirred the pot before pouring the steaming amber liquid to three-quarters of a cup, then added just enough milk to create the perfect tea colour. She passed the cup in its saucer.
“Ta.”
Alice scowled. “I think you mean why, thank you mam.”
“That sounds like Southern America, not southern England.”
“And ta sounds like n
orthern England.”
“Very good. I see your time here has not been wasted.”
Alice tucked into her pasty, which was not her first. Will played with his. It was a reasonable imitation, but the meat was basically minced and swamped by potato. He really didn't like the spicy overtones, either. However the pastry was fair, not too greasy.
“So, I had the strangest night. How about you?”
Alice smiled with her eyes, as her mouth was busy. When it wasn't, she began to explain. She explained that she'd phoned her driver and asked him to follow Will. She explained that the driver was watching as a shady-looking character placed flyers on all the cars in the unlit street. She even explained it was a known ploy of stranded lowlifes, to hijack cars – any car - to procure a ride home. She explained how her driver had been too slow to stop the sleazeball whacking Will, but had managed to jump on him and stop him taking the car.
“You weren't totally out, just dazed, so he put you in your car, picked me up, and we drove you home.”
“And the sleazeball?”
“He got away.”
“Bugger.”
Alice explained how she was sorry not to have dialled 999 and all that, but her driver was trained in First Aid. Besides, she wanted her presence here to remain secret. Will forgave her. He had been concussed before, three times, and not died or suffered any serious brain damage. He trusted her and her driver. He was far more concerned about the sleazeball.
“I really would like to get my hands on him.”
“Sorry we let him escape. Marvin – my driver – gave him a good whack, but was more concerned with checking you out.”
“Well, that's one question answered. My next question is why you had to travel nearly six thousand miles to tell me you liked my book.”
“Under four. I was in New York.”
“Of course. Just a short hop across the pond, then.”
Alice, for the first time, stuttered. “It's complicated.”
“Finished?”
Alice looked puzzled. “Err, I hadn't started.”
“Your tea.”
“Oh yes, yes. You wanna leave?”
I think it might be better. Walls have ears and all that. And waitresses, evidently.”
Waitress 65 tutted and returned to her station.
Will paid the bill and Alice left a tip. They emerged from the corner café and headed west up Queen Street, warmed by afternoon sunshine. Alice pulled a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers from her pocket and pushed them on with one hand.
“Disguise?”
Alice wasn't entirely sure herself. “Partly, and I don't like the sun.” Will didn't like the sun either, but in truth this one wasn't blinding. He pondered what it must be like to need sunglasses to go out in public and also how conspicuous Alice was, being the only person in Newington with shades.
“I actually think you're drawing attention to yourself.”
Alice stuttered for a second time. She weighed-up looking conspicuous against looking familiar, and left the shades in place. She tentatively held a hand against Will's elbow.
“I'm sure you'll protect me.”
“Depends on what you want from me, or my book.” Will smiled and guided her up a side street, until they reached a footpath running alongside a channelled, burbling stream. They found a seat recessed into a grassy bank, and settled on it.
“OK...” Alice began. She explained about her interest in the mythologies within Will's book, how she wanted to seek out some of the places mentioned, and what she sought to gain from this adventure. Will listened intently for a full five minutes and allowed her to finish uninterrupted.
“OK?” Alice finished.
Will was a good listener, understanding and open-minded. “This is a wind-up, right?!”
Alice was a little disappointed with the reaction. “No.”
She pleaded with her eyes, and Will was anything but immune to her charms. He looked around just in case there were hidden cameras, Ashton Kutchers or ghosts of Jeremy Beadle lurking in bushes with wigs and false moustaches. Alice's pleading face convinced him there probably weren't.
“You do know it's a fictional story?”
“Based on real events, places, people.”
“Yes, but basically I made it up.”
“I've done my research. The man, the legends … they are real.”
Will wanted to believe they were and of course he wanted to believe what Alice believed, but he barely believed in his own existence. If it meant spending time with her, he'd pretend to believe it. He was intrigued by Alice before he met her, but now his intrigue had swelled to unfathomable proportions and he wasn't about to crush his dreams, or hers. He figured it would be a fun adventure, whatever the outcome. Plus, he had nothing else to do that week.
“So … you want me to take you to Guffwell and summon a dead, mad-monk-vampire, so you can achieve immortality and have nice teeth?”
“I can live without the immortality.”
Will laughed. He couldn't better her line, and as he had little else to contribute, decided they should get some more tea.