Chapter 9
NINE
It is after midnight, and I am still working.
Last orders in the pub is at eleven, but it takes anything up to an hour to chase the stragglers out.
I remember my dad having a very loose relationship with the concept of ‘last orders’ anyway, and impromptu parties often sprung up unplanned and unannounced.
The locals were also friends, and would beg for a ‘lock-in’; my father was usually happy to oblige.
He was in his element, really, in a place like this.
The companionship, the humour, the warmth of the village coming together under his roof.
He was the perfect host. On weekends, they’d let me stay up late and join in, and when I was little I’d sit on the bar with endless glasses of lemonade and bags of Kettle Chips.
Other nights, I’d lie in bed and listen to the fun going on downstairs and feel left out – always looking forward to the days when I’d be old enough to do what I wanted.
Now I am old enough to do what I want, and as most grown-ups discover pretty quickly, it’s nowhere near as much fun as you think it’s going to be when you’re a kid.
In fact you seem to do even less things that you want to do, and more things that you have to do.
There are bills to pay, and you have responsibilities, both to yourself and others. Nobody is looking after you anymore.
I guess that’s supposed to change if you have a partner, but somehow I can’t see myself ever fully allowing someone to look after me, because what happens when they cheat or walk away?
That’s a horribly pessimistic outlook, but I can’t shake it off.
My ex-husband was a cheat, and although that happened many years ago, I still remember the way it sucked me dry of all my self-confidence.
Then there were my adventures on dating apps, which provided me with ample proof of how relationships can go sour.
Tyler should offset some of that cynicism, but I think it runs deeper – it also stems back to seeing my parents’ once stable marriage blow up.
In some ways, being away from the US is good for me.
I need to give some serious thought to Tyler’s suggestion that I move in with him.
I like him, and we have fun together, and I’m happy with things as they are between us.
For me, it’s perfect – we allow each other our own space but also have someone to share life with, and of course to have lovely sexy times and cutesy cuddles with. Why do things have to change?
I suppose they have to change because what is perfect for me isn’t perfect for him, and I know he wants more.
He said there’s no deadline on that change but I’m not sure our relationship can survive the imbalance.
Or if it’s even fair to expect it to – at what point does it stop being him giving me time, and become me stringing him along?
It’s a lot to consider, and being here gives me some leeway.
My dad is quiet and pale by the end of the evening, which really isn’t like him.
I chase him up to his bed despite his protests and tell him I can handle everything else that needs doing.
He looks sceptical. ‘Dad, just get some rest, and let me clear up – I promise you I won’t touch the cash register! ’
I used the American term on purpose, knowing that he would immediately correct me. ‘That would be the till, Eleanor!’
‘That would be my archnemesis, Father. Anyway, I’ll steer clear of the damn thing. It hates me. You can cash up tomorrow. But I can clear up and get things ready for breakfast. How many guests are in?’
‘Five in the doubles, and three in the family room. They have a five-year-old with them. We’ve changed the times though – from eight instead of seven.’
I nod. That at least is a blessed relief. ‘Does anybody come in to help?’
He shakes his head. ‘Not tomorrow. Maggie and Sandra have taken turns, but tomorrow was my first day back to doing it myself. Which, by the way, I am perfectly capable of!’
His voice lifts a little, but I can see the slight tremor in his hand, and how tired his eyes are. He has put on a good show tonight, for me and for the customers, but he’s not fooling anyone now. Except possibly himself.
‘I know you’re capable, Dad, but let me help, will you? I’ve come a long way to help – and yes, I know, before you protest, you didn’t ask me to. But I’m here and I’m staying, and I’m also capable. So please, have a lie-in, for feck’s sake!’
He smiles and raises his eyebrows. ‘How was it? Seeing Liam again? I never figured out what went wrong between you two. You used to be thick as thieves, and then he was persona non grata and I wasn’t even allowed to talk about him…’
‘We just grew up, Dad. People change. And it was fine – seeing him. It was… uh, it was nice. Now, go, leave me to it.’
He looks as though he wants to ask more, clearly not accepting my simplistic explanation.
But something in the set of my face must tell him I don’t want to discuss this, and he nods.
My dad and I have built our entire relationship as adults on not discussing things, and I don’t think that is going to be easy for either of us to change.
Reluctantly he gives in, disappearing into the back rooms, and I turn to look at the disaster zone that is the pub.
I take a deep breath and get started. I get the glass washer on the go, cleaning one load as I gather up the empties that are scattered on the tables and the wooden surface of the bar.
I smile at the Christmas tree as I walk by with an armful of lager bottles.
It’s so cute that my old decorations are still up – a reminder of simpler times, when my dad and I were completely relaxed in each other’s company.
It takes a good hour to do the cleaning, and this part does come back to me – washing the drip trays beneath the beer pumps, cleaning the nozzles on the pumps themselves, spraying down the tables and stacking the chairs.
We used to have a cleaning lady who came in most days, but Dad has told me he does it himself now.
I pick up as much detritus as I can and throw it away, but I’ll be up early to run the vacuum around too.
I rake over the coals in the fires to make sure I’m not going to accidentally burn the place down on my first night here, and start on breakfast prep.
I lay the tables, adding the condiments and sugar bowls, and check that the fridge is fully stocked with everything I’ll need.
I spend a bit of time in the kitchen getting bowls and plates ready to go, knowing that tomorrow morning’s me will be grateful to tonight’s me.
I do a last walk-through, tidying up the Christmas garlands and checking that the little baby Jesus is happy in his Nativity scene crib, then switch off the lights and climb exhausted up the stairs.
This was hard work when it was me and my mum and dad doing it.
How he has managed alone I have no idea.
I know he used to have more staff for sure, but from what I’ve gathered this evening, the only actual regular employee now is Sean.
The late nights, early mornings, the sheer amount of graft involved in running even a small place – I’m not surprised his health has suffered.
I wearily brush my teeth and fall into bed.
Just as I snuggle beneath the sheets, a message arrives from Tyler.
It’s a picture of him and the three Labs – Pippa, Polly and Miley Cyrus.
The latter is only a year old, and was supposed to be called something to match the others, like Penny or Posy.
Instead, as Tyler says, she barrelled into their lives like a wrecking ball, and the nickname stuck.
I smile as I look at the photo. It’s five hours earlier back in New Jersey, and he’ll be about to take them all out for their evening walk.
He lives in a nice neighbourhood in a three-bed house, and has a big yard for the dogs to play in.
It’s not exactly a terrible world that he’s invited me to share.
I yawn as I type out a quick reply, sending him some kisses. ‘They were for the dogs,’ I add. He quickly responds. ‘You don’t want to kiss Miley right now. She just rolled in fox poop.’
I laugh, picturing the dog’s guilty expression. ‘Stop it with the sexy talk,’ I answer. ‘Wiped out now, babe, will call you properly tomorrow xxxx. Those kisses were for you.’
I set my alarm for seven, so I can get clean the breakfast room properly before the guests come down, and set my phone aside.
It is so strange being here, in my childhood bedroom.
Staring up at the familiar ceiling, with its stick-on glow-in-the-dark stars.
Not all of them have survived, and what used to be a smooth swirling line that it took me and Liam ages to do is now just a random smattering of eerie light.
I close my eyes, listening to the sound of the waves.
It’s gentle tonight, a constant mild backdrop of the water splashing into land.
On stormy nights when the tide is high, it’s much louder.
Our little bay is curved like a half moon, a golden patch of sand surrounded by rugged cliffs filled with wildflowers and colonies of sea birds.
The sound of the ocean slamming in with force is one I’ll never forget, and always reminds me of how powerful nature is.
It takes a little getting used to after New York, where the evening lullaby comes with the gentle whisper of breaking glass and sirens and other city noises that I am now accustomed to.
In fact, despite how tired I am, I struggle to sleep.
My body is exhausted, but my mind is whirring along at a million miles an hour.
Why do minds do that? Why doesn’t your brain – which is actually part of your body – co-operate when you’re so tired?
By rights I should crash out now, and grab the few hours’ sleep I can.