6. Chapter 5
Chapter 5
Luke
B y the time we reach the village again, Bernard looks done for.
His ears droop, his paws drag, and he has the distinct air of a dog who has seen too much.
Mrs Higgins stops just outside the pub, giving her walking stick a firm tap against the ground before looking down at her exhausted companion. “Well, I think that’s quite enough adventure for today.”
Bernard lets out a long, dramatic sigh and flops onto the pavement like he’s trying to merge with it.
And then, it happens, although by now I am no longer surprised.
A slow, mournful release, as if Bernard is exhaling his very soul.
A breeze picks up, carrying absolute devastation straight towards us.
Nancy makes a strangled noise and immediately steps back. “Oh—oh my God—”
I turn away, rubbing my face with both hands. “Why does it linger?”
Mrs Higgins exhales, no longer bothered. “Honestly, lad, it’s just air.”
Nancy gags. “It’s a biological hazard.”
Bernard stares into the distance, completely unaffected, as though he is no longer part of this world.
Mrs Higgins pats his head fondly. “Poor lad’s had a long day.”
Nancy coughs into her sleeve. “So have we.”
I shake my head, trying to clear what little oxygen remains in my lungs. “This is why people leave cities. Not for the peace and quiet. For self-preservation.”
Mrs Higgins, entirely unfazed, adjusts the strap on her rucksack. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your drink. But I’ll be at the next one, Nancy, don’t you worry about that. And I’ll make sure the rest of the village hears about it.”
Nancy’s face lights up. “Really? That would be brilliant! For now, I am planning to host them once a month.”
Mrs Higgins nods. “Oh yes. By next time, you’ll have a proper group.”
Nancy grins. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for. Thank you, Mrs Higgins.”
She waves a hand. “No thanks needed, love. It’s a wonderful idea, and people just need a little encouragement sometimes.”
Mrs Higgins gives Bernard’s lead a gentle tug. “Come on, lad. Let’s get you home before you have to be carried.”
Bernard makes no effort to stand.
Mrs Higgins sighs. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She leans down and somehow manages to haul him back to his feet. “Right, then. Enjoy your drink, you two.”
With that, she starts walking at a very reduced pace, dragging Bernard gently along.
Nancy and I watch them go. The second they turn a corner, Nancy exhales, hands on her hips. “This is great. If Mrs Higgins gets involved, we’ll have a proper turnout next time.”
I smile. “I don’t think anything can stop this woman from rounding up the troops.”
She grins. “Fine by me.”
Silence settles between us for a second.
She shifts slightly on her feet, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “So…”
I glance at her.
She clears her throat. “I know the whole pub at the end plan was supposed to be for the group, but…” She hesitates, her fingers brushing idly over the strap of her rucksack. “Do you fancy a drink? I mean… obviously, no pressure—”
Something about her tone surprises me.
Nancy isn’t shy. She’s confident, quick-witted, always on solid ground in conversation. But right now, there’s an uncharacteristic hesitance. Like she half-expects me to say no.
I don’t like crowds. I don’t like small talk. I don’t like forced socialising in public spaces.
And yet—
I glance at the pub, then back at her.
“…Yeah,” I say, exhaling slowly. “Alright.”
Nancy’s expression shifts as she processes my answer. A flicker of something light and pleased before she covers it with a small nod.
I roll my shoulders. “I’ll get the first round.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—” she tries to politely decline.
“Please. Let me. As a thank you for organising today,” I give her a small smile.
She blushes again and I like it. “Alright then.”
“Go grab us a table,” I suggest.
She glances around, eyes scanning the outdoor space next to the village green before nodding towards a wooden table near the low stone wall, just as the previous occupants start gathering their things. “That one’s clearing up. I’ll grab it before someone else does.”
“Good plan.”
Nancy slings her rucksack over her shoulder and heads towards the table. “I’ll have a shandy, please.”
I nod and step inside the pub.
The change from the bright afternoon to the dimly lit interior makes my eyes adjust for a second. It’s quiet in here—not empty, but the kind of steady where no one’s in a rush. Wooden beams stretch across the ceiling, the scent of old ale and polished wood settling into the warm air.
Behind the bar, a curvy woman in her forties wipes down the counter, her ginger hair pulled back into a ponytail. She glances up as I approach and offers a nod of greeting. “Alright, love? What can I get you?”
“Pint of shandy and a pint of bitter, please.”
She reaches for the glasses, moving with the practised ease of someone who’s been behind a bar long enough to pour a pint without thinking. “Not seen you in here before.”
I shake my head. “First time.”
She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment, setting the first glass under the tap. “You visiting St Claire, then?”
“Live here.”
She glances up again. “Do you now?”
I nod. “Outskirts.”
She hums in acknowledgment, tilting the glass just so, the beer pouring smoothly. “You’ll be the Londoner, then.”
“Ah, the gossip mill,” I groan.
She smirks. “It’s a village, love. You move here but don’t tell anyone anything about you, people gossip.”
I exhale through my nose. “Brilliant.”
She doesn’t seem the least bit apologetic, switching to my pint of bitter. “Well, welcome to the Running Horse, then. I’m Alexandra.”
“Luke.”
She nods and slides both pints towards me. “That’ll be nine-fifty.”
I hand her a tenner. “Keep the change.”
She nods in approval. “Ta. Enjoy.”
I wrap my fingers around the cool pint glasses and push open the door with my shoulder, stepping back into the warmth of the afternoon.
Nancy is already at the table, her face tilted up towards the sun. Her eyes are closed, the light catching in her hair, a faint breeze stirring a few strands against her cheek.
I set the drinks down with a quiet thud against the worn wood of the table.
Her eyes flutter open, and a slow grin spreads across her face. “Perfect timing.”
I slide into the chair opposite her, the wood slightly warm from the sun, and nudge her pint towards her.
She lifts it with a small nod of thanks, then raises it slightly. “So, what are we drinking to?”
I hesitate for half a second, then lift mine to meet hers. “To the Ramblers of St Claire.”
Her lips quirk. “That almost sounded sincere.”
We clink glasses, the soft chime settling into the hum of the beer garden. She takes a sip, eyes still on me, like she’s weighing something up. I meet her gaze briefly before drinking, the bitterness of the beer grounding me.
“So?” she asks, setting her pint down. Her fingers drum absently against the wood. “Did you actually enjoy it?”
I lean back slightly, rolling my shoulders. “It wasn’t terrible.”
She lets out a small, amused hum, tilting her pint towards me. “That’s practically glowing praise.”
“It’s accurate.”
Nancy shifts forward, resting her elbow against the table, her expression light but knowing. “Not terrible is basically almost enjoyable.”
“Or it’s just tolerable.”
She shakes her head, grinning. “Nope. If you’d hated it, you’d have made an excuse and left as soon as we got back. But instead…” She gestures at me with her glass. “You’re here. Having a drink. With me.”
I glance down at my pint, rolling it slightly between my hands before lifting it again. “Maybe I just needed a drink before returning to my solitude.”
She laughs, the sound soft and warm in the space between us. “Nah, I’m not buying it. I think you’re less of a grump than you want people to believe.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You think?”
She traces a fingertip through the condensation on her glass, eyes flicking up to mine. “I know.”
There’s a teasing lilt to her voice, but something steadier beneath it, too, something that makes my chest feel uncomfortably warm.
She shrugs lightly. “You turned up for a group walk even though you clearly don’t like group activities. You shared your lunch after Bernard’s… moment.” Her gaze lingers, unreadable. “Doesn’t exactly scream anti-social. Doesn’t even scream mildly miserable.”
I exhale through my nose, shaking my head. “You’re reaching.”
She smirks, taking another sip of her shandy. “You’re deflecting.”
I glance away for a second, watching the way the sun catches in her golden blonde hair, the way she absently runs a thumb along the rim of her glass. There’s something easy about this—about her. She doesn’t fill silence for the sake of it, doesn’t push too hard. And yet, she pulls me into conversation without me realising I’m in it.
I raise the pint to my lips, letting the moment settle between us.
For once, I don’t feel the urge to leave.