2
Dermot O’Grady rubbed his hands together and surveyed The Templar. He’d arranged to have the pub thoroughly cleaned before proudly handing it over to the new owners. His eyes took in the freshly scrubbed stone floor, the large inglenook fire twinkling warmly, the rustic wooden tables with mismatched chairs and the clean, whitewashed lime walls. The lighting was subtle, creating a snug, intimate atmosphere. The Templar was a sixteenth-century former coach inn, oozing with character, and had been home to Dermot and his daughter, Finula, for over twenty years. Now it was to be someone else’s home.
On meeting the young couple, Dermot had recognised the same enthusiasm he had once felt whilst being shown round the pub. They, like him all those years ago, had instantly fallen in love with its history and charm. It was hard not to be enticed by its squeaky, uneven floorboards, old stone walls, beamed ceilings and open fires. A huge vase of fresh lilies stood on the bar next to a bucket of ice chilling a bottle of champagne, ready to be opened in celebration.
Stephen and Christie Newbury, the soon-to-be new owners, would be arriving any moment. Dermot couldn’t help but feel a touch emotional about handing over the keys to his pub, but was at the same time glad it was in safe hands, and not about to be taken over by a large brewery, which would no doubt rip out the heart and soul of the place. He’d witnessed first-hand how excited the Newburys appeared as they explored each room, discussing every nook and cranny of the place with eagerness. It felt right to be passing on The Templar to such young, vibrant people, ready to make a go of it.
Dermot had agreed to sell The Templar on the condition it would still host his daughter’s wedding and he would oversee all the arrangements. The Newburys were more than happy to agree to this, glad of the opportunity to learn the ropes from his valued experience. And he too had a new chapter in his life to look forward to. His comfy little cottage stood invitingly, waiting for him to enjoy the autumn of his life. His retirement was well earned and past due. Being landlord of a pub was heavy, relentless work and Dermot fully intended to embrace every minute of his retiring years. Besides, The Templar wasn’t the same without Finula; he was ready to move on.
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud knock at the door. It was mid-morning and the pub wouldn’t be opening until afternoon lunches were due to be served. Rubbing his hands together again, Dermot gave the room one last check before striding to answer. He unbolted the large, oak door and pushed it open with a bright, welcoming smile – only to be greeted by a woman standing there, alone and on the verge of tears. Dermot halted.
‘Mrs Newbury?’ He hardly recognised her. Gone was the fresh-faced young lady who was brimming with enthusiasm to get into The Templar. Instead a pale face, with bloodshot eyes stared back at him soberly.
‘Yes.’ She bit her lip nervously.
‘Err… please… come in.’ Dermot looked over her shoulder for any signs of the husband. There were none. Sensing Dermot’s puzzlement, she supplied an explanation.
‘I’m, afraid it’s just me…’
‘Ah, I see,’ replied Dermot, not understanding at all. An awkward moment passed briefly, before he continued. ‘Right then, let’s start with a cup of tea, shall we?’ Judging from this poor woman’s state, he suspected a good chat was in order before any champagne was popped. ‘Take a seat, Mrs Newbury, I won’t be long.’
Her eyes darted round the beautiful country inn she’d loved at first sight. Ever since clapping eyes on its Cotswold honey stone and small leaded windows that peeped out from lush, green ivy, she’d known it was for her. Dermot left the room and soon returned to the bar holding a tray of tea. He sat down next to her and poured, waiting for her to speak.
‘I don’t know where to start, Mr O’Grady,’ she attempted in a quiet voice.
‘Well, you can start by calling me Dermot.’ He smiled encouragingly.
‘I’m Christie.’ She shakily smiled back.
‘Where I come from Christie’s a boy’s name.’
‘It’s short for Christina.’
Dermot nodded. ‘OK, Christie, what’s to do?’ he asked gently. Although clearly something was wrong, Dermot knew the sale transaction had completed. All the monies had cleared. It was only because they’d agreed Dermot would still be hands on for a while that he was actually still there to officially hand over the keys. Christie’s shoulders started to shake with emotion.
‘He’s left me…’ Tears started to pour down her face. Dermot swallowed. It was hard watching someone of a similar age to his daughter so upset. As a father his heart went out to her.
‘Oh, Christie,’ he sighed, ‘want to tell me about it?’
