‘Elliot! I was miles away. Iuh, I guess we can close up? I’ll just put this empty box out by the bins.’
After his shower this morning he’d changed into black pants which are baggy like a boxer’s, or maybe a dancer’s, and now he’s zipping up a grey hoodie over a light t-shirt. The thin fabric’s stretching over his arms. ‘I’ll cash up,’ he says.
Those three little words provoke a surprisingly large amount of relief and gratitude, and I leave him to count the day’s takings while I tidy up, praying the money tallies with the till’s records, which I’m delighted to learn, it does.
Take that, Mrs Patterson! See? Icando maths. I can run a shop and manage the money, no problem. I’ll ring Daniel later and let him know he was right, I was worried about nothing.
‘So,uh, should we… get something to eat?’ Elliot says, as he hands me the cash box to stash under my bed for the night.
Running up the spiral stairs gives me a moment to think about it. There’s no food in the kitchen fridge, and no shops nearby to get any groceries, not that I saw on my way Up-along yesterday anyway. ‘Is the visitors’ centre café still open?’ I shout down to him as I smooth my hair in front of the bathroom mirror.
‘No, closes at five, that’s the village pretty much shut to visitors for the day,’ he calls back. ‘Except the lucky ones staying at the pub or the B&B. You,uh, you want to go to the pub?’
I hadn’t planned on dining out, let alone eating in the pub with a total stranger, and not one who looks like a model-slash-part-time-wrestler, and will get us stared at by the entire population of Clove Lore (which is probably about fifty-three people, a score of cats and dogs, and possibly a few olde-worlde pirates, if Jowan’s anything to go by), but there’s a little money in my bank account and my stomach growls about only having had a scone and some coffee all day and I relent. I quickly brush some powder over my shiny bits and sweep on a bit of tinted lipbalm.
‘Okay then,’ I call, trying to sound casual. ‘I can spare an hour, maybe. There’s lots to do in the shop,’ I shout back, and I hear Elliot putting another cheese sandwich in Aldous’s bowl in the kitchen, promising him he’ll buy some real dog food and muttering about Jowan not looking after his pet properly. Maybe he laughs too, but when I get downstairs he’s looking serious.
‘Ready?’ he asks, and from the atmosphere in the shop I’d say neither of us are really ready, but we lock up anyway.
Chapter Twelve
Clove Lore in the early evening summer sun is, let me tell you, one of the prettiest sights I’ve ever beheld. Elliot walked ahead of me, saying if I slipped on the steep cobbles he’d be able to break my fall, and so, as I take cautious, crab-like steps, I take in the sunlit flowers and greenery, refreshed after last night’s rain, the gleaming whitewashed walls of the cottages with each sparkling facet of their leaded windows aglow, and the clear blue sky with the wonderful glittering deep blue of the sea glimpsed between houses. I can’t avoid also glimpsing Elliot’s back and his long, thick-thighed legs powering him down the hill. Every so often he rakes his hair back and turns round to check I’m OK.
Yes, Clove Lore really is stunning tonight. This was a good idea, getting out of the shop for a while, getting orientated in the village a little more.
We hit the harbour within minutes, passing the defunct lime kiln and the red doors and flying flag of the lifeboat station. Down here the buildings (storehouses, places for smoking and salting herring) tell the stories of generations of fishermen, but they all look like family homes and holiday lets now, their gardens and balconies frothing with summer flowers.
The Siren, when Elliot holds the door open for me, is busy and everyone – except the oblivious tourists – turns to look at us as we enter. Jowan’s by the bar talking with Minty and the two lads in waders, the ones I saw yesterday. Jowan raises his pint glass at us as we come in. I’m sure I see Minty’s jolly demeanour shift to something more unsettled, suspicious even, as she watches Elliot stride past.
‘Let’s just grab a quick bite and get back to the shop, OK?’ I say, feeling every inch like an exhibit in a museum.
‘Yup,’ Elliot agrees and he steers a course for a table in the corner. Once we sit down I realise, delightedly, that our little window is directly above the water – in fact, the whole corner of the building seems to be jutting out over the sea as if held up on stilts. The window’s open and the fresh salty scent of the sea makes my stomach growl again.
‘Scampi and chips?’ I say, scanning the menu, aware that we’re still the whispered talk of the bar room.
‘I’ll stick to the veggie pasta.’ Elliot’s shifting uncomfortably in his chair and holding the menu up as if to deflect the stares.
‘You’re vegetarian?’
‘Carb loading. I work out a lot.’
‘Was that where you went this morning?’
‘I ran up the slope to the visitors’ centre then along the coastal path for an hour.’
‘All that before you even got the coffees?’
‘I like to run, clears my head.’
He’s got his nose buried in the menu again and I admit, I’m starting to despair about making small talk with this guy. I really should have brought a book.
‘I’m definitely getting fries though, and a milkshake,’ he throws in over the top of the menu, which helps settle me a bit.
A man, probably in his late fifties, approaches our table, notepad in hand. His salt and pepper hair is cropped short and his grey eyes smile the unfazed smile of a landlord who welcomes everyone to his pub and who has seen it all over the years.
‘You’re the Borrowers then?’ he says, and I get the chemical whiff of cigarettes off him. ‘How’s life at the bookshop?’
‘Good thanks,’ I say, smiling. ‘We’re finding our feet.’
