Chapter 8
Megan woke the next morning with the sun piercing through the gap in the floral curtains. She had chosen to sleep in her old room, snug under the eaves, rather than in the main bedroom, and after a moment’s disorientation she smiled at the comforting surroundings. This had always been her favourite room in the cottage, and it held so many fond memories. Glancing at the patchwork quilt on the bed she was reminded of how she and Gran had painstakingly matched up the small squares and carefully sewed them together on the old Singer sewing machine.
That gave Megan an idea. The sewing machine would come in very handy now that she had decided to completely refurbish her new home. Whilst she loved everything about Bluebell Cottage, Megan wanted to put her own mark on it, though still keeping the traditional look. New curtains would be a good place to start, along with freshly painted walls to replace the damp, curling wallpaper. Megan was filled with a bright optimism. It was amazing what a good night’s sleep could do.
Flinging back the sheets, she scrambled in the bedside cabinet for paper and a pen. A ‘to do’ list was in order whilst she was feeling so positive. Number one, ‘Get a job’. Although she did have some savings, they wouldn’t last for ever and she had to do something. Local would be best. On her arrival in the village she had noticed a sign outside The Templar asking for part-time bar staff. Although she’d never worked behind a bar, it would be good to work so close by.
Ideally she wanted to work from home. Since leaving her old office job she had visions of fulfilling her dream to make a living as an artist. She had studied art at college but, instead of continuing on to university, she had opted to get a job and stay at home. Maybe she had inherited her mum’s reluctance to fly the nest. Her dad had always said it was such a waste of talent. Her portfolio was bursting with paintings, from the buzz of street life in vibrant cities, with their bright lights and towering buildings, to the rolling velvet hills and swaying cornfields of the countryside. Megan longed to paint, but she had hardly touched her brushes since… well, since she had met Adam, actually. She missed the smell of the paint, mixing the colours into misty sea turquoises, fresh verdant greens and pale pastel shades. Deciding there and then to resurrect her talent, she wrote number two on her list, ‘Start painting again’.
Maybe she could combine both action points? Get paid to paint, start commissioned work. The more she thought about it, the more appealing the prospect became. She’d get business cards made, advertise in magazines, print flyers… Excitement tinged inside her as the idea began to flourish. She would need to fetch her portfolio from Mum and Dad’s so that she would be able to display samples of her work where she could. Perhaps the local tearoom would be a good place to start. A shiver of anticipation rushed through Megan as she imagined the quaint little café showing off her paintings, with a card and price tag discreetly lodged in the corner of the frame. It would be a good idea to paint nearby locations, capturing the essence of the village with its old-fashioned post box, its beautiful fifteenth-century church, its bubbling brook and, in high summer, its poppy fields. On impulse, Megan decided the first thing she’d paint would be Bluebell Cottage and dedicate it to Gran.
Spurred on by her master plan, she jumped out of bed; there was a lot to do today. First stop was The Templar, so she dressed smartly in black trousers and a fitted short-sleeved white blouse, wanting to make a good impression.
*
Entering the pub Megan was greeted by a cheery, ‘Hello there!’ from a red-headed girl serving behind the bar. Megan guessed they were a similar age, judging by her pale, smooth skin covered in freckles and her skinny jeans and crop top.
‘Hello,’ Megan replied with a smile, making her way towards the bar.
‘All moved in?’
Megan grinned, she was accustomed to village life, having spent so much time with Gran, but it would take a little adjustment, having neighbours who knew your every move 24/7.
‘Yes, thanks. I’m Megan, by the way.’ She held her hand out.
‘Finula. Pleased to meet you.’ She gripped Megan’s hand in a firm, confident shake, making her silver bangles jingle.
‘I’ve come about the part-time job advertised.’
‘Great, have you any experience of bar work?’
‘Not exactly, but I’m a quick learner.’
‘Right,’ laughed Finula, ‘let’s see how you pull a pint then.’
Megan, rising to the challenge, joined Finula behind the bar.
‘OK, so slowly does it, tilting the glass.’ Finula had obviously pulled many a pint, making it look so easy as the amber fluid gradually made its way up the glass. ‘Now your turn.’ She handed Megan a pint glass. Licking her lips in concentration Megan pulled back the hand pump, which hissed and a slight spray of beer squirted in their faces, making them giggle. After several attempts and much chuckling, Megan was getting the knack of it.
‘We do bar snacks and there’s also the restaurant, so we’d need you to wait on the tables, too,’ Finula informed Megan.
‘That’s fine, no problem.’ Megan looked towards the room where the restaurant tables were neatly dotted about in cream linen tablecloths with tall-backed leather chairs. It all looked very elegant; a good contrast to the real traditional bar area with its stone floor and wooden benches. ‘It’s lovely, Finula. You must love working here.’
‘It is a friendly environment. I do a lot of the catering. All our food is sourced locally. The vegetables are from Treweham Hall.’
‘Really?’ Megan pictured the impressive manor, with virginia creeper and wisteria growing up its majestic stone walls. She’d always admired it and had often wondered what the Cavendish-Blake family would be like, hidden away in such a vast, imposing home.
‘Sure, the Cavendish-Blakes are keen to support the village. So, when can you start?’ asked Finula.
‘What, that’s it?’ Megan asked, startled. ‘Don’t you have to ask anybody first?’
‘Well, only the landlord and he’s my dad. To tell you the truth, we’re desperate and so far you’re the only one that’s showed any interest. Anyway, you seem keen enough so why not? And Dad usually does what I tell him,’ Finula smirked.
‘Yes, that’s usually the way, isn’t it, Fin?’ called a loud Irish voice from the side of the room.
‘Ah, here he is, the man himself. Dad meet Megan, our new barmaid.’
‘Is she indeed?’ quipped the larger-than-life chap. He had thick silver hair and sideburns, reminding Megan of an Irish Pa Larkin. ‘Hello, Megan, I’m Dermot.’ He nodded towards the pint glasses filled with ale. ‘Got the hang of it?’
‘Think so. I’m honest and reliable, too,’ Megan added with a winning smile.
‘To be sure you are, Megan,’ laughed Dermot. ‘Tell you what, you supply a reference and I’ll give you a month’s trial, lass. When can you start?’
‘Er… tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow it is then. Come at lunchtime on the first day, when it’s not too busy If you cope with that you can do some evenings as well.’
‘Thanks.’ Megan was elated. ‘And thanks too, Finula.’
Finula beamed, it was about time she worked with someone closer to her age instead of the middle-aged housewives in the village. Something told her Megan would prove to be just the tonic this pub needed.
