‘Or should it be pair,’ the man said, with a smile. He nodded to Cook. ‘Great minds and all that,’ he said.
Cook nodded.
‘Beaumont,’ the man said, holding out his hand. ‘ARP warden.’
‘And a bit more than that,’ Gracie said.
Beaumont took the compliment with a good-natured smile. ‘Just doing my bit,’ he said.
Beaumont stood out, different from the rest of the crowd. His clothes spoke of a certain level of wealth. A tweed suit, well fitted. He looked at home in the pub, the way Cook imagined he’d look to a stranger who came into his local.
‘What do you think of the IPA?’
‘Had worse,’ Cook said. ‘Tastes better here than it does out there.’
‘You were in India?’ Beaumont asked.
‘Royal Sussex,’ Cook said. ‘North-West Frontier.’
Beaumont grimaced.
‘Heard it was a tough show.’
‘This is Frankie’s farmer, Mr Cook,’ Dottie, the barmaid, said.
‘How’s he doing?’ Beaumont asked.
‘He’s doing well,’ Cook answered. ‘We’ll make a farmer out of him yet.’
‘Where’s Ruby?’ Beaumont asked the barmaid, who looked over the crowd, checking to make sure.
‘Must have kept her late again,’ she replied.
There was a ripple in the crowd. People stepping back in a hurry. Hushed comments. In the centre of the disturbance, the eye of the storm, a man took off his cap and looked around, challenging someone to look at him.
He wore a heavy black coat, and he had a solidity to him, radiating a quiet anger. He stepped up to the bar, next to Cook, and nodded to Dottie, who jumped to it and pulled him a pint.
Cook held out his hand.
‘Cook,’ he said.
The man took his hand, squeezed. A powerful grip.
‘Reynolds,’ he said. ‘Frankie’s my boy.’
Cook met the pressure but didn’t push it. Didn’t seem right to pick a fight with Frankie’s father.
Reynolds released his grip, satisfied he’d asserted his dominance. A smile flicked across his face. He’d had his suspicions about farmers, and he’d proved himself right.
Gracie passed Reynolds a pint.
‘That’s your allowance,’ she said. ‘On account of the boy. Drink that up and be on your way.’
Reynolds drank thirstily. ‘Poor state of the world when a man can’t toast his own son,’ he said, an edge in his voice.
‘Frankie’s been telling us all about life in the country. You’ve been letting him drive the tractor!’ Dottie said.
‘He’s doing a fine job,’ Cook said.
