Yours Truly

by Kirsty Greenwood

  After an expedition that sees me making various false turns into a storage cupboard and a ladies bathroom, I finally find my way into the main pub. There’s no one about. It seems oddly quiet now that it’s closed, like a ghost pub. I spot a fresh-faced Meg sat alone at a table by the bar, vehemently tucking into some scrambled eggs.

  “Urgggh!” I groan as I approach. “I feel very bad and sicky.”

  “You look like crap,” she says kindly, biting into a thick piece of toast. “Want some?”

  “Yes. I could eat a scabby horse.”

  I help myself to a piece of toast and take an enormous bite. Oh yum. Hobbs thick farmhouse white smothered in creamy butter – just how I like it. I pour myself a glass of fresh orange juice from the jug on the table and down it in one, not caring as it dribbles down my chin.

  “Man, I’m thirsty!” I say, downing another glass.

  “I’ve been up for ages,” says Meg brightly. “I even went for a walk. It’s gorgeous around here.”

  “Good for you.”

  How can she not by dying of a hangover? She drank far more than me and yet here she is, hair in a perky ponytail, looking all healthy and zesty and stuff.

  “Where’s your lovah?” I tease.

  At this, Meg’s face flushes.

  “He works at the Hobbs factory up in the hills so left at stupid o’clock to go and bake bread.”

  “You sound upset. Do you miss him? Do you lurve him? Do you wanna mawwy him?”

  “As if,” she shakes her head. “I was glad not to have to see him in the sober light of day. Oh God. I’m mortified at myself. At least I’ll never have to see him again.”

  “You slept with him, then?”

  She covers her face with silver ringed hands.

  “I didn’t even properly fancy him. Ugh. I’m such a big, fat hussy.”

  “Of course you’re not.”

  She raises her eyebrows, questioning. “Natty, do you think I’m a hussy?”

  “No!” I say at once. “See? The absolute truth!”

  She looks mollified. That’s the first time this stupid truth-telling has actually done some good.

  “To be fair,” she reasons, “I’ve not had sex in seven months, so I was due a blow-out.”

  “So to speak.”

  “Ew. I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t think I was thinking at all. Anyway, let us never mention it again -”

  “But -”

  “Mr Francis in the Art Studio, Mr Francis in the Art Studio!”

  “FINE. We shall never speak of it again.”

  “Good,” she grins, finishing up her eggs. “Nice outfit by the way, masculine, but cute.”

  “It’s my new look,” I say, fingering the soft Daz white linen of the too-big shirt. “It’s from the man-dwarf chic collection at Sak’s, New Yoik. Thanks for leaving them on my bed. How did you get hold of them? “

  “I didn’t leave them for you.”

  “Oh... I just assumed…”

  “So you found them, then?” says a deep Yorkshire voice from behind me.

  I spin around and see Riley walking towards us holding a tray upon which lies a bright yellow teapot and all the related tea making paraphernalia. His hair is still wet, presumably from the shower, and he’s dressed in a soft chocolate brown knitted sweater and worn pale blue jeans that stretch distractedly over his muscular thighs.

  It suddenly occurs to me that it’s his shirt and joggers that I’m dressed in.

  “Oh. You put them there,” I say to him. “Er, thank you.”

  “No problem. I thought with the others being ripped, you know…?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  What a thoughtful thing to do. Or was it a weirdly intimate thing to do? I smile at him as he places the tray before us, but the smile turns into a grimace as my head throbs even harder. I route around in my bag for painkillers and neck two with some juice.

  “I did ask Honey to bring some clothes over today,” he goes on, “but she said that her stuff would be far too small for you.”

  He innocently pours tea into cups, oblivious to the insinuation.

  “Well. Of course. Obviously…” I mutter. “Honey’s teeny.”

  “How long have you two been together?” Meg asks, helping herself to a cup of tea, while Riley sits down at the table.

  “She just turned up in the village about six months ago looking for a job. We've been dating ever since”

  “Six months. Pretty serious then,” I muse out loud. “Are you getting married? I’m getting married. In four weeks. Christmas Eve, actually.”

  I’m not sure why I told him that. It seemed important to get it out there.

  “To Olly,” he says looking directly at me.

  How does he know that?! My face screws up in confusion.

  “You told us last night,” Riley says brightly. “You told us everything, remember?”

  His eyes twinkle with amusement, and before I can respond he’s standing up from the table and strolling off, taking his mug of tea with him.

  Just before he reaches the doorway to the back room he turns around.

  “Enjoy your meeting. I’ll be in the kitchen cooking bland things with black pepper.” And with that he disappears.

  Well.

  How rude.

  Talk about holding a grudge.

  “Did he just say something about a meeting?” says Meg passing me the last piece of toast.

  “Yes, I think he did. He’s odd isn’t he? Maybe meeting is like, a Yorkshire term for breakfast or something.”

  “Natty, we’re in North Yorkshire. Breakfast is breakfast. I’m quite sure that meeting here means the same as it does back in Manc.”

  And just as we’re pondering what Riley meant the door to the pub bursts open and in trail three of the locals who I vaguely recognise from last night, including Alan in his flat cap, and a wiry woman with her wispy grey hair scraped back into a bun and gold spectacles perched on the end of her nose. I don’t recognise her at all.

  “Hello lasses, glad to see you’re up!” Alan bellows, instructing the rest of the newcomers to take seats at our table.

  “Hello?” Meg and I chime, looking at each other, bewildered. I glimpse the clock on the wall. Hmmm.

  Isn’t it a bit early to be coming for a drink? Is this a village of alcohol dependents?

  “So,” says Alan once everyone is seated. “Shall we begin?”

  “Um, begin what?” I ask, properly puzzled. What the chuff is he talking about?

  Alan rolls his eyes at the others. “Our meeting, of course. It’s eleven-thirty AM. Time to start Operation Locate Brian”.

  It turns out that in the throes of an alcoholic stupor last night, I assembled a crack team of local pensioners to help with my plight. I must have geed them up good and proper because they’re very excited about the task in hand.

  We’ve all reacquainted ourselves with each other, and by that I mean I’ve had to ask everyone’s name again because I really don’t remember a thing about organising this.

  And so, Operation Locate Brian consists of Meg and I, ruddy-faced Alan, Mrs Grimes (the local shopkeeper, and village gossip - she wasn’t in the pub last night, but heard my tale and wanted to get involved) and Morag and Barney Braithwaite, a sweet retired couple in their late sixties.

  While I was asleep, blissfully unaware of the hangover from hell creeping its way through my body, Alan, Mrs Grimes, and the Braithwaites were already on the case. They got up early this morning and searched Brian’s house for clues.

  “And the oddest thing was,” Alan is saying, tapping a fountain pen against a notebook, “it didn’t look as if Brian had gone away at all. The heating was on and there was a cold bottle of milk on the countertop.”

  “That’s strange,” I say. “He definitely wasn’t there?”

  “We looked all around the house,” says Mrs Grimes gleefully, pushing her gold specs up her nose. “He’s got one of those bidets, you know! And his duvet cover ha
s pink stripes!”

  “But we couldn’t see hide nor hair of him,” Alan interrupts, giving Mrs Grimes a disapproving glance.

  “Then we thought, what if he’s been murdered?” says Morag Braithwaite, a kindly looking woman with tight curly white hair. “I thought it would be best to call the police.”

  “But we couldn’t,” adds Barney Braithwaite patting his wife on the arm. “After all, we had no business being in his house. We didn’t want to get arrested.”

  “You broke in?” Meg says, her voice perfectly echoing the shock that I feel. “You didn’t have a key? Brian didn’t give you a key?”

  Morag looks ashamed of herself, two spots of colour appearing high on her cheeks.

  “We didn’t steal anything.” Alan says gruffly. “It wasn’t a proper break in. We just wanted to find some clues. But there was nothing helpful at all.”

  “How on earth did you get in without a key?” I ask.

  They go quiet.

  “We climbed in through the bathroom window,” Mrs Grimes finally admits, her bottom lip wobbling with the guilt of it all.

  “No!”

  “Well, he shouldn’t have left it open. He’s lucky it was only us who broke in, leaving his window open for all and sundry to wriggle through.” She tuts and folds her arms in a huff.

  Oh goodness. What have I instigated? Four pensioners breaking and entering into someone’s house, committing crimes!

  “We’re so sorry we haven’t come up with anything yet, love,” says Morag shrugging her shoulders sadly. “But we do have another plan.”

  The others nod, apparently excited.

  “What is?” I ask, feeling suddenly nervous.

  “Well,” says Barney. “We’re going to do a media splash.”

  “Excuse me? A media what?”

  “Our radio station. Radio Trooley!”

  “This place has a radio station?” says Meg in surprise. “But it’s so small!”

  The locals look mildly affronted.

  “I used to work for BBC Radio 2, I’ll have you know. Radio Trooley has quite the following,” Barney grumps before turning back to me.

  “I think your story is a real human interest piece, Natalie. The mystical hypnotism and your impending wedding, and a very unhappy groom…”

  “Olly,” I mutter, nodding sadly.

  “And we have listeners all over the North West of England and on the internet. If we tell your story on the air, someone in the know might be listening. Someone who knows where Brian is!”

  The locals look very impressed with themselves.

  I think about it for a moment. It doesn't seem like such a good idea. Once people find out that I'm a bonafide victim of hypnotism gone wrong, they'll probably want to know all about me. Scientists might want to experiment on my brain. It'll be like in ET: The Extra Terrestrial. Only without the flying bicycle, which is sad because that’d be really cool.

  But then again... the quickest way to find Brian would be to have lots of people looking out for him. And the only way to get lots of people to look out for him is with publicity.

  Maybe other people who have been the victim of his wayward brain control thingies will come forward. We could set up a support group... there could be wine and nibbles and -

  “Natalie?” Meg nudges me.

  “Can I think about it?” I say. “And get back to you?”

  “Oh yes. Of course, love.” Morag Braithwaite says kindly. Her husband Barney tuts and shakes his head.

  “Thanks for the meeting.” says Mrs Grimes getting up from the table. “I must be off. Robbie's shirts won't iron themselves. Sons, eh? Lazy buggers.”

  Beside me Meg chokes on her tea. Robbie is this woman's son! Ha!

  “I have work to do too,” Alan says gruffly, picking up his fountain pen and clipping it to his shirt. “Great meeting. Thanks all. “

  As the two of them wander away I get the distinct feeling that they've done this before.

  This place is so weird.

  “Anyone for an early lunch?” Riley says strolling in from the kitchen balancing a tray carefully in one hand.

  A chorus of “Ooohs” go up around the table as the tray is placed in front of us. Riley removes a huge silver dish cover with a flourish, and there on a white saucer is an orangey pink blob surrounded by bright green bubbly liquid.

  Morag jumps back as the blob wibbles around on the dish. She clasps Barney’s hand in shock.

  “What on earth is that?” says Meg prodding the blob with her finger. “It looks like it's breathing.”

  Riley ignores her. “Here we have a chicken parfait served with, um, pig trotters and, a… sumptuous foam made from foraged pine.” He looks pointedly at me. “Fresh, original and definitely not boring. Try it. You’ll see. I think this one could go on the menu.”

  “Not for me, thanks,” Meg says, not bothering to hide her disgust. “I’m calorie counting.”

  “I had a huge breakfast, love,” Morag pats her tummy for emphasis. “I couldn’t eat another morsel.”

  “I just need to nip to the loo,” a pale faced Barney says, rushing off to the men’s.

  “Dicky tummy,” Morag says apologetically before hurrying after him.

  Which leaves just me.

  “Natalie.” Riley smiles and nods to the blob on the table. “You’re the great culinary expert, seemingly. I think you’ll agree that this dish is really something special.”

  He hands me a fork, his gruff face expectant and handsome.

  I feel bad. If I try it and it tastes like it looks then I’m only going to insult him again. Oh dear.

  “Ah, go on,” he says guiding my hand towards the plate.

  I’m not sure what else to do without being horribly rude.

  And so I taste it.

  “It’s… interesting,” I eventually say, struggling to swallow what must be the oddest thing I have ever put in my mouth.

  “You have to ask her the question to get the truth,” Meg pipes up unhelpfully. “She’s trying to be polite.”

  I scowl at her. She laughs at me.

  Riley nods and takes a seat at the table, looking me straight in the eyes.

  “How does it taste, Natalie?” he asks frowning slightly.

  The question immediately sparks the weird fizzy feeling and I’m off.

  “Individually, the elements aren’t bad at all. But what on earth are you thinking serving chicken parfait with a pine foam? Are you on glue? It looks damn ugly, and if you’re trying to be all trendy by serving pigs trotters then it isn’t working. They’re still pig trotters. You know? Feet of a pig! Pigs. Toes…”

  I can feel myself getting all worked up. Who knew I was so passionate?

  When I’ve finished my cruel analysis Riley runs his hands through his hair causing it to stick out at more bizarre angles than it was already at.

  “This is never going to work,” he says, shoulders slumping. “I’m starting to think this whole turning the Old Whimsy into a gastro pub is just a really dumb idea.”

  He looks distraught, the sparkle in his eyes dulled. I feel truly awful that I’ve made him feel sad. It doesn’t suit him at all.

  “Why don’t you just hire a chef to do the menu?” Meg says reasonably. “Why are you trying to do it all yourself?”

  Riley sighs long and low. “I would, believe me. But we can’t afford to hire anyone. Honey and I work for very little as it is. Alan helps out for free.” He gestures to the bar where Alan is methodically slicing lemons and limes while humming to himself.

  “There’s no way we could afford to take someone on right now.” He scratches the thick stubble on his jaw. “That dick Jasper Hobbs is circling the place like a fucking vulture.” His eyebrows knit together. “He thinks that if he throws enough cash at us we’ll give the place up and he’ll be able to turn it into more Hobbs Bread offices. Fucking offices!”

  He stops and looks up at us apologetically, as if his outburst has surprised him.

  “I’m
sorry. Inappropriate language for a Saturday afternoon. Or anytime, really. Forgive me. I don’t really know why I’m telling you this,” he exhales sharply, looking directly at me. “I guess it’s easier to tell the truth with strangers.”

  My heart goes out to him. He’s obviously really stressed. I can’t help but think, however, that he is being a teensy bit dramatic.

  Meg must be thinking the same thing because she brazenly says,

  “Obviously this place means a lot to you. But…why don’t you just take the money? If the Hobbs fella is throwing cash your way then you could just buy a pub elsewhere.”

  “Oh, Hobbs would love that,” Riley shakes his head. “The Old Whimsy is the oldest building in Apperdale. Hell, it was here before the village was even a village. And it’s been in my family - the Harringtons - for yonks. When you live in a place like Little Trooley, the age of a building carries status. Hobbs think that because they're such a big company now, Little Trooley belongs to them. And that includes this pub. They want an age old Yorkshire build right in the centre of things to show off to their buyers. Well, I’m not going to give it to them.”

  “But if you can’t afford to keep it open…” I let my voice trail off when I see his face.

  “You think I should just give up?” he asks, eyes flashing with frustration.

  “No,” I say truthfully.

  We all go quiet. Riley thinking about the doomed fate of his pub. Me thinking about Brian, and Meg most probably thinking about her one night stand.

  The silence is just on the verge of becoming awkward when Meg says.

  “Natty here is a chef, you know. Maybe she could help you…”

  Riley’s face lights up.

  “Really? Ha! Are you really a chef?” He looks dead impressed. I quite like him looking at me like that. So much so that part of me wants desperately to lie and tell him that I’m a super amazing chef, Le Cordon Bleu trained. But his question means I have to tell the much less impressive truth.

  “I’m not a real chef,” I say. “I did a year or so training, but never got my qualifications in the end.”

  This doesn’t deter him.

  “But you can cook? You know about food?”

  “Yes. I suppose I can cook and I do know about food. I love food. I eat a lot of it.”