Chapter 10
TEN
They piled out of the Land Rover that Bear had parked on the roadside in the village of Lytell Stangdale, joining the rest of the group where they’d congregated on the worn sandstone trod.
Glancing around her Florrie could see why the village was described as chocolate-box pretty, with its quaint limewashed cottages topped by heavily thatched roofs and neatly tended gardens.
From where she was standing, she could see a well-kept village green complete with pond and weeping willow dangling its branches in the water.
She chuckled as a handful of hefted sheep ambled down the middle of the road towards them.
Though she was aware it was a common sight in the moorland villages, it still managed to raise a chuckle from her and her friends.
Inside, the Sunne Inne was every bit as delightful as Florrie had expected, with its low, heavily beamed ceilings, thick, uneven walls and tweed soft furnishings in rich, moorland shades.
A sturdy oak bar sat on the back wall, a row of gleaming beer pumps catching the light of the hand-forged wall lights.
It exuded quality and cosiness all at once.
Though the main lunchtime rush was over, the place was still thrumming with customers, the gentle murmur of chatter with the occasional laugh thrown in creating a jovial and welcoming atmosphere.
The faint tang of woodsmoke hovered over the mouth-watering aroma of Sunday dinner that floated out from the kitchen.
As if on cue, Florrie’s stomach growled.
Jazz was right, all that dancing and laughing had built up a huge appetite.
Stella, who was standing beside Florrie, leant into her. ‘I’m told because the Sunday dinner here is so popular, the landlord and landlady decided to extend the lunchtime hours and continue serving it right through to the evening, which is why we’ve managed to get booked in.’
‘Can’t say I’m disappointed about that,’ said Ed, who’d overheard, his eyes glued to a couple of plates piled high with the said Sunday dinner in the hands of a young server who whizzed by on their way to a nearby table.
‘Mmm. Same here,’ said Florrie, following his gaze. ‘Thank you so much for thinking of it and organising it for us.’
‘Pleasure, flower.’ Stella beamed.
After a brief discussion at the bar with a tall, wiry man with a plummy accent, and a pair of half-moon glasses perched on the end of his aquiline nose, Alex directed the group to a row of tables near to where flames danced in a large inglenook fireplace.
A couple of dogs, who were baking themselves in front of the fire, barely looked up as the friends, drinks in hand, worked out who should sit where.
The group of people on the other side of the fireplace were engaged in friendly banter, the occasional loud bark of laughter coming from them.
Amongst them, a glamorously dressed woman with a head of impossibly glossy purple waves with a distinctly fifties movie-star style caught Florrie’s attention.
She couldn’t help but think her appearance seemed somehow incongruous in a pub in the middle of the North Yorkshire Moors.
The food was even more delicious than Florrie had expected – the roast potatoes were the perfect combination of golden and crispy on the outside and soft and fluffy in the middle, while the mashed potato was creamy and indulgent.
And don’t get her started on the Yorkshire puddings!
They were like giant clouds smothered in lashings of beef and onion gravy that was in plentiful supply.
And the toffee apple crumble with the most rich, velvety custard was to die for.
Florrie sank back into the banquette, Ed’s arm curling over her shoulders, delicious flavours running around her mouth.
The warmth of the pub and a stomach full of delicious food was proving to be a heady combination.
She relaxed into Ed’s embrace, a feeling of contentment and security wrapping around her, as she succumbed to a couple of long blinks…
‘Uhh?’ She was startled awake by a nudge in the ribs from Jasmine, who was sitting on the other side of her. ‘What?’
‘Bloomin’ ’eck! You’ll never believe who’s just walked in.’
Florrie blinked, her friend’s question taking a moment to sink in. ‘Who?’
‘Only Gabe Dublin and Noushka. And he’s brought a guitar with him.’
Florrie’s eyes pinged wide awake! ‘No way!’
It took mere seconds for word of Gabe’s arrival to get round the friends.
They looked on as he made his way towards the group of people at the table next to them, his guitar in one hand, a pint of beer in the other.
He evidently hadn’t spotted the Micklewick Bay folk.
Florrie felt a rush of relief; she wouldn’t want him to think they were stalking him or coming to have a nosy at where he lived – assuming he called one of the local moorland villages home, that is.
Anoushka had been waylaid and was chatting to a young woman with long auburn hair who was standing at the bar with a tall, blond man.
A low stool appeared and Gabe perched himself on it, leaning his guitar against the wall. The friends tried not to watch as he sipped his beer and chatted away amiably to his friends, the occasional lilt of his Southern Irish accent floating their way.
Before long, the man behind the bar – Florrie learnt he was called Jonty – called for everyone’s attention and announced that they were going to be treated to a ‘bit of a singsong’ courtesy of Gabe who, from what she could gather, did live locally.
After an enthusiastic round of applause, accompanied by whoops and whistles, the singer made his way across the room and perched himself on a barstool.
‘Afternoon, folks,’ he said, gently strumming his guitar, taking a moment to check the tuning of the strings.
‘I apologise for interrupting your peaceful Sunday afternoon, but you’re a captive audience and, hey, I couldn’t resist!
’ He flashed a disarming grin, making everyone laugh.
‘Oh, and I thought you might like to know that landlady Bea has a bagful of rotten tomatoes, so when you’ve had enough of my warbling, feel free to chuck ’em at me.
I’ll take that as a sign it’s time to stop.
’ He chuckled, strumming at the strings of his guitar some more.
‘Okay, then, I think some of you might know this one. And, if so, please feel free to sing along.’
Soon the bar was filled with Gabe’s rich, smoky voice.
Everyone in the room was spellbound. Florrie instantly recognised the song as his last single before he’d given up performing to concentrate on songwriting.
‘My Rose-Shaped Heart’ had hit the number one spot in the UK charts and stayed there for weeks.
The lyrics of unrequited love, so tender and moving, combined with the emotive melody, brought a lump to her throat.
As if that wasn’t enough, the added hint of his soft Irish accent somehow made it feel all the more believable and tugged even further at her heartstrings.
She sniffed quietly and blinked back a rogue tear, hoping no one had noticed.
‘Thank you all for the best day ever,’ said Florrie. The friends were standing outside the pub, preparing to head home, an upbeat air around them.
‘Totally agree, thank you all,’ said Ed, smiling. ‘On paper it sounded fun, but – wow! – it far exceeded expectations.’
‘It so did,’ said Florrie, feeling the nip of the chilly wind that had picked up since they’d first arrived in the village. The temperature high up on the moors was a good few degrees cooler than by the coast.
‘Didn’t it just?’ said Jasmine. ‘I mean, Gabe Dublin… who’d have even thought?’
With cheeks kissed and hugs bestowed, the friends headed to their respective cars. ‘I’ll be in touch about the next thing we’ve got planned for your hen celebration. It’s later this week – after work – and this one’s my idea,’ Jasmine called across the road.
‘Thanks, Jazz. Looking forward to it.’ Grateful as she was, Florrie was too tired to even think about what it might be.
In the Land Rover, passing the beautiful, rugged moorland scenery, Florrie sat back, allowing the events of the day wash over her.
To say it had been a far cry from what she’d originally feared her friends had planned for her would be an understatement.
It had been wonderful. She knew it would be something they’d be talking about for years to come.