‘A ceiling-related incident?’
‘Well, more of a ceiling-related catastrophe, if we’re being precise.’
I peer past him to get a peek inside, but there’s nothing to see from down here. ‘You look like half the ceiling’s come down on you.’
‘Not half. More like a third. Forty per cent at most.’
I don’t know whether to laugh or whether he’s being serious. ‘How did that happen?’
‘I don’t know. It’s an old building. These things just do.’ He does a small shrug which sends up another cloud of plaster dust. ‘And I possibly need to brush-up on how load-bearing beams function. But enough about that… What brings you up here?’
I hold up the box of pastries. ‘Wanted to say thank you. For breakfast yesterday, and the shower facilities, and parking help… and for being the kindest, most understanding person I’ve met recently.’ I didn’t intend to say that last part out loud, but there’s something about looking into his blue eyes that makes me take leave of my sense of self-preservation and blurt things out.
His face lights up with genuine joy and a grin so wide that it makes dust fall from his cheeks. ‘I recognise that box. There had better be a Yorkshire curd tart in there.’
I laugh. ‘How did you know?’
‘I’d be disappointed if Lettiehadn’tbeen carefully monitoring my purchases and sharing them with all those she deems relevant.’
His attitude makes me smile. I was quite annoyed about having my shopping scrutinised, but he just accepts it as a quirk of this village.
‘That’s really nice of you. Come in. Mind the…’ He waves vaguely inside the pub. ‘Well, everything, really. I’m just going to…’ He gestures for me to step aside, grabs a towel from near the door, and limps outside.
I step inside as he shakes himself off like a wet dog getting out of a bath. He flaps his dark T-shirt out and brushes his work jeans down, and uses the towel to scrub dust from his face and hair, and I stand and watch for probably too long before I realise I’m ogling him, and start trying to find my way to the kitchen.
It’s been a long time since I came in here, and my memory of the layout is vague. To the right is what was once the buzzing main bar area with rustic chairs and tables and music and laughter, and to the left was a function room that people could hire for private events. Out of sheer nosiness about what Reece is doing, I poke my head around both now-doorless doorways, but the function room is empty and the bar is nothing more than a storage area for unused tables and chairs that were once filled every night.
Behind the well-used mahogany bar is a tiny door that I remember Mrs Patchett bringing food through. As tempting as it is to have a look around while Reece is still outside, I make my way past dustsheet-covered furniture and stacks of storage boxes.
In the kitchen, there’s an array of tools spread across the units. One of the rickety wooden bar stools is pulled up to a serving island in the middle, and Reece’s tool bag is open on it, with a vast selection of tools spilling from it, and the countertops around the walls are not much different. I push aside a hammer and a spirit level to make space for the pastry box on the island, and there’s a kettle next to a canister of teabags on one side of the unit, so I set it to boil and find a few mismatched mugs in the cupboard above.
I’m just about to have a nosey into his fridge when he comes back in. His hair is sticking out in all directions and it still looks a bit on the grey side where he’s managed to spread the plaster dust further rather than getting it out, and it brings to mind naughty thoughts of him using the hosepipe shower, and I’m so distracted that I grab a bottle of tomato ketchup instead of milk, and then have to go back and swap them sheepishly.
‘Who’s that?’ I point to a framed photograph of a little boy with curly brown hair and big blue eyes that’s placed on top of the fridge, almost like he’s looking out across the kitchen.
‘No o—’ Reece was probably going to say ‘no one’ but his voice catches. He swallows instead. ‘Nothing that concerns you.’
I bite my lip and go back to making the teas. Whoever the little boy is, Reece doesnotwant to talk about it. Trust me to be too nosy and put my foot in it somehow.
After a few moments of awkward silence, he starts pushing more tools aside to create some space and then limps around the kitchen and goes into a walk-in cupboard to get out two plates. ‘Thank you. I was just thinking how much I could do with a Yorkshire curd tart and a cup of tea.’
‘Really?’ I turn around and give him a look. ‘It didn’t sound likethatwas what you were doing…’
‘If only you’d come five minutes earlier, you could have saved me from having something else to fix.’ He gives me a grin as he disappears through the door into the bar and returns with another wooden stool, which he pushes up to the opposite side of the island.
His grin looks bright, but his words don’t sound like he’s joking, and maybe it’s because of what the ladies said this morning, but now I definitely get the feeling that he’s not being as open as I thought he was.
He gets out the two Yorkshire curd tarts, puts them on a plate each, and slides one across the island as I finish making the tea, and he sinks down onto one of the wooden stools with a bone-deep sigh that makes it sound like it’s been alongtime since he last sat down.
‘How’s the leg?’ I pointedly put one of the mugs down in front of him and haul myself up on the other stool so there’s a corner between us. ‘Better before 40 per cent of a ceiling fell on it, I’m guessing?’
He laughs but doesn’t contradict me in quite the way I was hoping he would. Instead of an answer, he breaks a piece off his tart and pops it into his mouth. ‘Oh, that’ssogood.’
I’m not really sure what to make of this Yorkshire delicacy myself. It’s like a cross between a baked cheesecake and an Eccles cake, but I follow his lead and break a piece off and try it, expecting the worst from the simple and unappetising look of it, but what I get is a creamy, rich and delicious sweet cheese filling with a hint of lemon and spices, sultanas, and buttery shortcrust pastry that immediately makes me go back for another bit.
‘Mmmm, eighth heaven,’ Reece mumbles with a mouth full. ‘That’s like seventh heaven but a higher level reserved solely for people consuming these.’
The little pub kitchen is filled with the obscene noises of us enjoying the tarts, and if that nosy sheep is still outside with its head over the wall, it willnotthink that we’re just eating.
