by Kate Hewitt
Sam cracked a tiny smile, making Rachel’s spirits lift. “It’s not all that difficult, but I can show you, if you like, take you around the place.”
“Okay.” Bailey squirmed and Rachel transferred her to her other arm. Sam glanced down at the puppy and gently patted her head.
“She’s sweet.”
“I hope she didn’t keep you up with her whimpering—”
“I think I was the one who kept you up.”
“Sam, is everything okay?” she blurted. She’d already asked him that but she didn’t know what else to say. Something was wrong, and she wanted to help. And so she would be, although in a rather unlikely way…but she wanted to help in another way, as well. She wanted to listen, even to comfort…if Sam would let her.
He sighed heavily. “It’s not okay, but like I said, I’m working on it. Do you want to meet downstairs in an hour or so?”
“Sure.” Of course Sam wasn’t going to unburden his soul to her. She barely knew him, and he didn’t seem like the type of person who unburdened his soul to anyone.
Upstairs Rachel deposited Bailey on the floor before reaching for the coffee. She definitely needed a cup, or three.
Miriam still wasn’t awake by the time Rachel had showered and dressed and was heading downstairs, but since Bailey was curled up in her crate asleep, Rachel figured she could leave her for a short while. Hopefully Miriam wouldn’t mind taking the puppy out a couple of times this afternoon while Rachel was—rather unbelievably—pulling pints.
Sam stepped outside his flat as Rachel came down from hers. He must have been listening for the click of her door, the creak of the stairs. He looked a lot better, freshly showered and shaved, smelling of soap, his hair damp and spiky.
“Thanks for doing this,” he said as they headed down to the pub. “I really appreciate it.”
“It’s no problem.” Rachel glanced around the empty, darkened pub as Sam flipped on the lights. The floor was cleanly swept, the top of the bar shining and polished. Sam must clean up every night before he closed—it was a lot of late nights. “Do you have any paid help?” she asked. “It seems a lot to manage on your own.”
“I have a few part-timers but they’re not people I’d like to leave alone in the pub on their own.”
“And I am?” Rachel said with a little laugh. “Are you sure about that? I’m a bit scatty, Sam.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “You’re a teacher. You must be organised.”
“If you’d like a display board on autumn colours, I’m your woman.” She gestured to a blank space of white plaster by the front door. “It could go right there.”
“I’ll think about it.” Sam gave her one of those infinitesimally small smiles, making Rachel’s stomach do a strange little flip. It almost felt as if they were flirting, but of course they weren’t.
“So how does one pull a pint?”
“Come here and I’ll show you.”
Rachel came around to the back of the bar, and Sam directed her to the row of taps. He reached above her head for a clean pint glass and handed it to her. She breathed in the smell of his soap as his hand brushed hers and she told herself not to be so ridiculous.
“Hold the glass at forty-five degrees,” Sam instructed as he stood behind her. “And aim to pour at the midpoint of the glass, tilting it as it fills up.” He reached across and flipped the tap.
Rachel concentrated on holding the glass at the correct angle; she was stupidly conscious of Sam standing right behind her. This really was ridiculous. She needed to get a grip. Why was she so disconcerted, so aware?
“Watch it.” Sam righted the glass she had actually managed not to watch, and the foam spilled over both their hands. Rachel jerked back.
“Sorry.” She flushed in embarrassment, both at her reaction to him and her inability even to pour a pint. “I’m not very good at this, am I?”
“All you need is a little practice.” He emptied the glass down the drain and handed it back to her. “Try again.”
This time Rachel gave the process her entire focus and managed it successfully, if rather slowly.
“Much better.”
She turned around, only to bump into Sam’s chest. He stepped back quickly, but it was too late. Her face was now officially scarlet.
“So how about the till?” she asked unsteadily. “How does that work?”
“It’s pretty basic.” Sam walked over to the cash register and Rachel followed, keeping her gaze trained on the machine rather than the man. Fortunately, she could grasp the mechanics of it quickly, and she practised ringing an order up and giving change, before Sam deemed her ready.
“It shouldn’t be crowded in the afternoon, just a few old codgers who sit at the bar for an age over their pint. I don’t do food yet, and the soft drinks are in the chilling cabinet down there.” He nodded to below the bar. “I doubt you’ll get any orders for cocktails, but if you do just say you can’t do them. Unless you know how to make a whisky sour?”
“I can make a decent gin and tonic,” Rachel offered. “Plenty of experience.”
“Well, you know your capabilities then. As for wine…again, it probably won’t be an issue, but if it is, the glass sizes and prices are there.” He pointed to a blackboard sign propped against the frosted mirror behind the bar. “There’s a house red and white, your basic plonk.” Rachel nodded. It seemed simple enough.
“Fab,” she said brightly. “It all seems rather straightforward.”
“I hope so. Thanks for doing this.”
“It’s not a problem. You’ve helped me out. It’s my turn to help you.”
Sam nodded, looking as if he wasn’t entirely comfortable with that idea; Rachel got the sense that he was not a man who willingly accepted help or shared personal details with anyone. At least she’d won a few smiles from him this morning. Each one had pleased her a rather absurd amount.
“I should be back after an hour or two,” he said. “Hopefully.”
“I don’t have any plans for the day, so no worries.”
And so it was, at one o’clock, Rachel found herself positioned behind the bar, smiling cheerfully at the flat-capped farmer who gave her a stony look in response. He was the only customer, thankfully; she’d been half-fearing some deluge of summer ramblers demanding difficult drinks.
Miriam had promised to take Bailey outside, and Rachel had sensed in her sister a slight thawing towards the puppy. Perhaps it would be good for her sister to have something to take care of for a little while. At least Bailey didn’t need nappies, although on second thought that wasn’t a bad idea.
“What are you doing behind the bar?” Another farmer had clumped in through the door, scowling at her rather ferociously.
“Just standing in for a bit,” Rachel answered as cheerfully as she could. “What can I get you?”
“Aren’t you the vicar’s daughter?”
“The former vicar, yes. One of them, anyway.”
The man let out a harrumph as he plonked himself onto a bar stool. “That’ll be the day, when the vicar’s daughter is serving at the pub!”
“I suppose it is the day, then,” Rachel chirped, smile firmly in place. “Now what can I get you?”
It wasn’t too hard, once she’d got the hang of it, serving up pints and ringing the till. The farmers who came in weren’t a chatty bunch, although Rachel did her best. She asked about the sheep, and whether the price of wool had gone up, to which she received a snort of disgust.
“Wool? Wool? You don’t raise sheep for wool,” one man said, shaking his head. “I’d almost think you were an offcomer.” Rachel supposed she should be gratified that after thirty years in Cumbria, she wasn’t considered an offcomer—just close to one.
“Is no one buying wool jumpers anymore?” Rachel asked innocently, knowing the answer, and the man snorted.
“Wool jumpers, with all this fancy Neoprene and Lycra about? No one wants a proper jumper anymore, I tell you. The only reason to raise sheep is for th
e meat.”
“I do enjoy a nice lamb chop.” Esther had already told Rachel many times about the state of farming in Cumbria, and she knew that most farmers survived on the subsidies given to them for keeping their land in ‘Good Agricultural and Environmental Condition’. The result was a way of life that wasn’t sustainable, even if it made the rolling hills and dales dotted with fluffy sheep and drystone walls look appealing, the England that everyone knew and loved.
By three o’clock, having served all of four customers, Rachel was starting to feel restless, wondering where Sam was, and what he was doing. Had he sorted out whatever problem he’d had? And who was the woman who had been banging on his door in the early hours of the morning?
At a quarter to four Sam finally walked into the empty pub where Rachel was mindlessly wiping counters, and he looked so tired and rumpled that Rachel wanted to hug him. She didn’t, of course. She took in the crooked tie and button-down shirt that looked a bit incongruous on his muscular form, and the shadows both in and beneath his eyes, and gave him a sympathetic smile instead.
“How are you?”
“In need of a strong cup of coffee.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Or two.”
“Shall I make you one?” The pub, Rachel now knew, did basic teas and coffees, no cappuccinos or lattes on offer.
“Yes, please.” He slid onto a stool, his elbows resting on the bar, his head in his hands. Rachel flipped on the kettle and regarded him silently, unsure if she should ask, well, anything.
“I owe you an explanation,” Sam said after a moment.
“You don’t, not really. Not if you don’t want to tell me anything.”
“The woman who was knocking on my door last night was—is—my sister Tiffany.” He paused, and Rachel wondered if he was going to say more. “She’s had a history of alcohol and drug abuse, bad boyfriends, the lot. She also has a son Nathan, who is seven.” His voice thickened a little, and Rachel felt a lump forming in her throat. Already she felt sympathy for that poor, vulnerable boy.
“I…I overheard her saying last night that they’d taken Nathan away…?”
“Yes, social services put him in temporary care last night. Apparently, she had one of her boyfriends round, shouting the place down. He knocked her around, and he scared Nathan. There had been complaints… It’s not the first time something like that has happened, but it looks like this time it might be for good, or at least for a long while. She has too much bad history.”
With just a few bleak words he painted such a grim and desolate picture. “I’m sorry, Sam,” Rachel said quietly.
“So am I. He’s not a bad kid. He’s no angel, either, I know that, but he’s had a raw deal and I know what that’s like.”
Did he? Rachel decided not to ask, even though she was rather desperately curious. “Is there something you can do to help?” she asked instead.
“I met with his caseworker this afternoon and I put in an application to take care of him myself.” He looked up then, bleary-eyed and haggard. “Not that I’m the ideal candidate by any stretch. In fact, I’ll be surprised if they let me have him.”
“Why? You seem like a decent prospect to me. You have your own place, you run your own business…”
“Yes, but it’s a pub, not exactly a place for a child to grow up in.” He sighed and shook his head. “And I have my own chequered past.” He pressed his lips together, clearly keen not to say any more on that subject, although Rachel was even more curious now.
“When will you find out if you were successful?”
“Today or tomorrow. The case is urgent, because they haven’t got enough foster carers in the region. He’s with a respite worker but it’s only temporary—they don’t take kids for more than forty-eight hours.”
Rachel frowned. “That sounds kind of cold and clinical.”
“Sometimes it is. The foster system is a good idea in theory, but basically it sucks.”
He sounded almost as if he had personal experience of it. Another question not to ask, and one that made Rachel realise how little she knew of this man—and yet how much she wanted to know.
“If they haven’t got the carers,” she asked, “then surely they’d approve him coming to you? You’re a close relative—”
“It’s not always that simple.” He looked away, his expression grim. “How about that coffee?”
“All right.” Rachel made the coffee, her mind whirling. What was Sam hiding? And realistically, how would he take care of a seven-year-old boy, when he worked all hours at the pub? When she thought about it a bit more, she could understand how a social worker might be reluctant to entrust Nathan to his uncle, no matter how good Sam’s intentions were.
“What’s your sister doing now?” she asked as she set a cup of black coffee in front of him. “Is she still with you?”
“No, she took off this morning. It’s what she always does. Comes round in a bad way and then buggers off.” He sighed wearily. “I’m used to it.”
“It sounds tough.”
“It is. But you’ve got your own problems. Thanks for this.” He raised the cup and then downed it in one steaming go.
“If I can help…”
“You have helped.” Sam’s voice took on a stubborn note. “I’m sorry to have had to ask you, but thanks. I’ll take over from here.”
Rachel felt dismissed, and a little stung by it. Weren’t they friends now? Yet even so, she understood Sam’s self-protective instinct; hadn’t she felt the same? It wasn’t particularly pleasant, having someone pore over your wounds and probe your weaknesses. She was already tired of several weeks of how-are-you-coping conversations; Sam had probably had years of them in relation to his sister and her son—and who even knew what else.
“Well, if you do need any help,” she said as she took off her apron and hung it on a hook, “do let me know. I’m right upstairs.”
“I know. Thanks, Rachel.” He gave her a fleeting smile that didn’t reach his eyes before turning back to the bar. Rachel nodded, wishing there was more she could say or do, but Sam wasn’t interested and so after a second’s pause she headed upstairs.
When she got into the flat Miriam was sprawled on the sofa with Bailey asleep on her chest like a furry baby.
“I’m in love,” she admitted. “She’s adorable, even if she wees everywhere, including on me. Twice.”
“She is a puppy.” Rachel smiled at the sight of the pair of them. It was good to see her sister looking more cheerful, and Bailey was as cute as ever, eyes closed tight as she snored softly.
“How was the pub?” Miriam asked as she stroked Bailey’s golden fur.
“Fine. Quiet, actually.”
“And Sam?” Miriam’s eyebrows rose in expectation.
“The same, really.”
“Still waters run deep and all that,” Miriam mused. “Who do you think that woman was last night?”
“It was his sister.” Rachel wasn’t sure how much information about Sam she should share with Miriam. He hadn’t told her not to say anything, but he seemed such an intensely private person she felt reluctant to part with any more details than necessary.
“His sister? Now that’s unexpected.”
“Who did you think it was?”
“A girlfriend, obvs.” Miriam shrugged, and Bailey let out a little whimper of protest at the movement. “He’s quite good-looking, isn’t he, in a rough and ready sort of way?”
“Oh Miriam, honestly.” Rachel tried to sound dismissive but she was remembering the way her stomach had flipped when Sam had stood so close to her, and she started to blush just as she had back then.
“You’re blushing,” Miriam crowed. “Oh, Rachel, have you got a crush on our hunky landlord?”
“Of course not. And why are you sounding like an episode of Barbie?” Rachel retorted. “Obvs and hunky? Seriously, Miriam.”
Miriam just grinned, and then Rachel started to laugh. It was nice to see her sister seeming a little bit back to her sassy self.
“Hey, aren’t you Skyping Mum and Dad today?”
“Already did it.”
“Oh.” Rachel sank into an armchair opposite Miriam, surprised. It must have gone well, based on Miriam’s mood. “And?”
“And they were really lovely about it all,” Miriam said quietly. She looked away, blinking rapidly. “Completely gobsmacked, of course. Dad looked a bit…dazed. But they said they’d support me and my baby—it feels so weird saying that!—and they would do whatever they could to help, no question.”
“I bet Mum wanted to get on the next plane back here.”
“A bit, but I think she knows I need to sort this out myself. She said she’d be here when the baby is born, in January. She might stay on after Anna’s wedding.”
“Oh, right. Well, that’s something, then.”
“Yes.” Miriam nodded slowly. “It just feels so unreal, Rach. I can’t be a mum. I’m so not mum material. I’ve never held down a proper job, never even lived in a proper home besides the vicarage…”
“Hey, what about our flat?” Rachel exclaimed in mock indignation. “This seems quite homey to me.”
“Yes, but you know what I mean. I just don’t know how I’m going to do any of this.”
It did seem quite daunting—Miriam had no job, no training, no money. But if she wanted to keep her baby, Rachel would do all that she could to help with that. “You’ll figure out a way. Together, we will. And we have time, you know. About six months to figure it all out.”
Miriam nodded, still looking unconvinced, and Rachel found herself thinking of Sam, and his hope to take care of his nephew, not in six months, but in the next two days. How was he going to do any of that—and how much help and support would he have? Not a lot, by the looks of it, but it didn’t seem as if he wanted help from her. But perhaps she would give it anyway, no matter what he wanted, because life was too hard to try to manage on your own. That much Rachel knew; she was blessed to have both family and friends nearby, even if she sometimes resented their well-meaning interference. Sam didn’t seem to have anyone…and goodness knew he’d need someone now.