‘You’re incorrigible. We’re here now.’ Rosy leant forward and placed her hand on the big blue door to the pub. Matt quickly glanced at the outside of the building.
‘Umm, are you sure?’ He looked like he thought he was going to get food poisoning merely by stepping inside. She tutted, loudly. She was enjoying this schoolmistress thing. It almost gave her leave to be as abrasive and rude as she liked; it was a bit of a novelty, and he really didn’t seem to mind.
She tried looking at the pub with fresh eyes. Admittedly it was a bit rough-looking. It wasn’t just that the paint was faded and flaking, that the hanging baskets were well and truly hung (in a gallows kind of way, not in a flamboyant rioting colour kind of way) and one of the window sills was so rotten it was actually hanging off, attached by no more than a whisper and a splinter. It made her smile; she loved this place. Then she saw him catch a glance of the path by the side of the door and into the pub garden. Scramble followed his gaze and began to bark frantically.
‘Rosy, there’s a horse in the garden.’
‘Uh-huh. Are you coming in?’ This was proving more amusing than she had thought. She was so used to the pub that she forgot its ability to make a standout first impression. Matt picked the dog up to calm him.
‘Bloody hell, is that a cow next to it? Is dinner really that fresh?’
‘Don’t be daft.’ Rosy pushed on the door and headed inside.
‘It’s called The Smuggler’s Curse, for God’s sake! What are you doing? Is this some kind of trap?’
‘See you later then, I’ll be out after I’ve eaten,’ Rosy called over her shoulder.
‘It’s got an actual gravestone on its board and you’re eating here?’ Matt addressed the shut door.
Rosy popped it open from the other side. ‘I can still hear you. Man or mouse?’
‘Are those the menu choices? OK, OK, I’m coming!’
A man stood behind the bar. Wiry with ill-fitting clothes, he reminded Matt immediately of Bean, the gaunt and terrifyingly mean, cider-loving farmer fromFantastic Mr Fox. As he got closer he realized he smelt rather like it as well. It didn’t seem to bother Rosy one iota as she leaned forward over the bar and gave him a peck on the cheek.
‘Alreet, me luvver, you in for the usual?’ Matt dreaded to think what ‘the usual’ was. Although, to be fair, the bar, glasses and bottles behind it seemed cleaner than its external appearance would have you believe. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. And they didn’t seem to bat an eye at him bringing Scramble in.
‘Yes, but for the two of us please. Let me introduce Matt – he’s just moved into Mary’s old house, so I thought I’d best bring him in for lunch.’
‘Ar.’ The barman gave Matt a cursory look up and down, ignored his outstretched hand and turned his attention back to Rosy. ‘From up country is ‘ee?’
‘Yes. Play nice. I’ll have a gin… and Matt?’
‘I’ll have a pint of…’ Matt scanned the pumps and decided to play politics and plump for something local, ‘Tribute, please.’ Pseudo-Bean’s face didn’t change as he handed Matt the pint wordlessly, although his eyes could have narrowed a little bit; it was hard to tell. Rosy looked as if she were fighting the urge to laugh. And he couldn’t help but smile at her. It would all pan out fine; the locals would eventually accept his family, in seven generations’ time.
‘Right, we’re heading into the other room. Ta, Roger.’
‘See ‘m in a minute, bird.’
‘Yep. Two the same, mind you!’ Rosy delivered these last words rather firmly. He really did quite like this schoolteacher voice she kept putting on. He had friends who were married to teachers who constantly complained that their partners spoke to them as if they were six years old. But Rosy managed to make her teacher’s voice sound quite dirty. Or maybe it wasn’t Rosy, maybe it was him? Maybe he had a whole side to him that he hadn’t realized existed? Maybe he should explore this more.
‘Um… are you coming?’ Rosy called to the accompaniment of Pseudo-Bean-now-called-Roger’s sniggering. ‘You’re in for a treat.’
‘Yep, right behind you.’ Rosy pushed open yet another door, one that resembled a fire door in a village hall or run-down hotel. Not one that you would place in the middle of a country pub. It led into a big old room with tables and chairs, straight out of an eighties B&B dining room, complete with dark green paper napkins and floral place mats. He thought Cornwall was all mismatched chandeliers, pale blue and slate these days. Not in The Smuggler’s Curse, it would appear.
But the decor only took a one-second glance before dismissal; there were far more interesting things in the room. There were the people, for a start. It was busy, far more so than Matt would have ever imagined from the outside. And the customers themselves were a real hodgepodge of people. They appeared to have very little in common, other than, as Matt quickly glanced at their plates, a bloody lovely-looking roast dinner. Yum. Maybe Rosy knew what she was doing after all.
As they weaved through the tables, the smells and sights of Sunday lunch were becoming more and more appealing; he hadn’t realized how ravenous he was. At this rate he’d have to wipe the dribble from his chin before he even got to sit down. Always such an appealing look for the ladies.For God’s sake, man!This was a neighbourly outing, nothing more. Rosy had Mr-Mystery-Saturday-Night and he had commitment issues and a glittering career to build.
‘Here OK for you?’ His neighbour interrupted his train of thought.
‘Commitment issues and a career,’ was the answer that fell out of his mouth. Honestly, he was such a fool. It had always got him into trouble when he was younger; his thoughts would often just pop out of his mouth when asked a question with absolutely no bearing or relevance to what was being asked. This was not the time for this to start again. God knows what could come out. Perhaps he should just gaffer tape his mouth up.No, no, please don’t say gaffer tape next, he begged his brain. It was going to get him locked up at this rate.
‘Yup, we all have those but they won’t get us lunch, so is this table OK for you?’
‘Oh, sorry. I’m an idiot. Of course, although they’re reserved.’ Matt concentrated really hard and thankfully made sense this time. He drew the chair in front of Rosy out for her to sit, and felt his tummy flip as she smiled up a thank you and carried on talking.
‘God, yes. You have to reserve the tables otherwise you don’t have a hope in hell’s chance on a Sunday. I rang ahead when you left, but I come in most Sundays anyway. I usually squeeze in with some of the regulars, but I didn’t want to throw you in at the deep end.’
