‘Doesn’t matter. Does Greg have family? They’ll be interested in what you’ve found here and that you’ve decided to stay.’
‘He has a wife – that’s Judy – and a couple of grown-up kids … Have you decided I should stay then, Maisie Samson?’
She hesitated just long enough to give him doubt. ‘I’m still making up my mind. Here, fill in this form while I make us a coffee. I’ll be back shortly.’
Leaving Patrick with a job application and a pen, Maisie escaped to the kitchen. She didn’t want a drink but she did want time to think about her decision. His story about Greg was plausible and actually very touching. She could check out the Fingle in seconds on the Internet and chat with Judy Warner and any other referees Patrick supplied. Again, Google would be her friend when cross-checking that the bars really were owned by Greg and Judy. She was used to hiring and firing and as long as Patrick’s story checked out, she should feel confident in taking him on. Except, he was different to any other employee. Or was that simply because she fancied him? If so, that was her own lookout. Eventually, she took two mugs of coffee back to the bistro. Patrick had finished writing and handed her the form.
While he sipped the coffee, Maisie scanned through it quickly.
‘It all looks OK. You haven’t murdered anyone, have you? You didn’t list any criminal convictions.’
He laughed. ‘I haven’t murdered anyone, but …’
The hairs on the back of Maisie’s neck stood on end. ‘But?’
‘I have been in prison.’
Maisie’s heart plunged. Here we go, she thought. Here we go.
‘In Australia?’
‘Yeah. I spent six months in a young offender’s place. I got drunk and vandalised a kids’ park in one of the suburbs. It wasn’t my first offence and I did a lot of damage. I was with some mates – at least I thought they were mates at the time – and the judge said I was the ringleader.’
‘And were you?’ she asked him, amazed her voice was so calm. Of course she’d interviewed applicants with a criminal record before, and taken on some over her years as a pub manager. She’d only regretted it once when one had taken advantage of her trust and stolen some cash from the till: the other ex-offenders had tended to work twice as hard once they’d been given the chance of a job.
‘Oh yes. I was the ringleader. I was angry at the whole world back then. I thought I owed nothing to anyone.’
‘Was there a reason for that?’
‘I’ve spent too long with social workers and shrinks to answer that quickly. I don’t know. They say it was because I lost my parents “at a vulnerable stage in my formative years”. I want to be honest with you from the start. I went off the rails when I was young. I went a bit wild, quit school, bummed around, got into all kinds of minor trouble, smoked some weed, tried some stronger stuff …’
‘I’m sorry. Your parents must have been young themselves.’
He shrugged. ‘Youngish, yeah … I don’t want to bore you with my family history. I got back on the straight and narrow, thanks to Greg and Judy’s help.’
‘They sound like good people. I’m sorry about your parents. I can’t imagine losing one of mine, let alone both at once …’ She was curious about what had happened but didn’t want to ask him directly. ‘What a terrible thing to deal with when you must have still been very young too,’ was all she dared to say, but Patrick seemed to want to carry on in the same open manner.
‘I was at boarding school when it happened. It was a light aircraft crash … they were travelling between the Outback and Adelaide where we were living at the time,’ he said, evenly, as if he was so used to saying it that by now it was like relating a story about someone else.
‘Who looked after you?’ said Maisie, deciding that as Patrick had already revealed some of the details himself he wouldn’t mind her asking.
‘I stayed at school in term time and in the holidays I went to a distant older cousin’s, although she packed me off to summer camps and the like, which suited us both. Soon as I was seventeen, I left and picked up a load of odd jobs and lived off the small trust fund Mum and Dad left when they died.’
‘What about your other relatives? Grandparents, aunties and uncles in Britain?’
‘At the time, one elderly grandfather in a nursing home. An auntie on Mum’s side who had four kids and had just remarried a man with twins. An uncle who has his own family and definitely wasn’t interested in me. And even if they had wanted me, I would have jumped in a shark-infested ocean before I’d have left Oz. I didn’t want to come here: all I heard of it was shit weather and whingeing moaners who were always complaining about the shit weather.
‘The thing is, I met Greg while I was at low point. One of the regulars at the Fingle was a volunteer at one of the youth centres where I’d rocked up – forced to by my probation officer. He saw something in me, God knows what, and he told Greg about me. Greg and Judy took me on as a pot washer in the bar. They gave me a chance.’ He smiled. ‘Many, many chances until I finally realised how bloody lucky I was and got my act together and decided to live a pure and sin-free life henceforth.’
‘Pure and sin-free? That sounds boring,’ Maisie joked.
Patrick laughed. ‘Not as boring as staring at four walls for twenty hours a day, or waking up in a pool of your own vomit.’
She winced, then it clicked. ‘Ah. The Coke. You’re teetotal, aren’t you?’
‘I am. Does that put you off taking me on as bar staff?’
‘On the contrary, I consider it an asset.’
Maisie blew out a breath, trying to take in the story she’d heard. Patrick was so blasé about his terrible childhood and youth. Breezing through a tragic tale as if he were talking about an exciting rugby match. Maisie was certain that there was a lot more to discover about Patrick McKinnon, but how much did she want to know? His smiling eyes hid so much, she thought. As did her gobby, sassy façade. ‘Interesting way of trying to impress your new boss,’ she said. ‘“Shitty weather and whingeing moaners”, eh?’
Patrick gave a wry smile. ‘With some exceptions, of course. Gull Island’s not too shabby, when the sun’s out …’
He left the sentence hanging, tantalisingly. Left her waiting for the line about the Driftwood and its owner: her.
But nothing.
‘You made a reference to “my new boss”,’ he added instead of a compliment to Maisie. She wasn’t sure if she was disappointed or relieved he hadn’t tried to flatter her. She really had no idea how she felt about taking on Patrick McKinnon. ‘So, does that mean you’re not put off by my history?’
‘Well, there’s been nothing I need to know about since your spell in prison, has there?’
‘So I’m hired?’
She had a feeling she might be making the biggest mistake of her life … Maisie smiled and held out her hand. Patrick grasped it firmly but without trying to prove some point by mashing her bones. ‘Subject to your references checking out, yes. Congratulations and welcome to the Driftwood. Now, let me show you the staff accommodation.’
Patrick raised an eyebrow. ‘You have staff accommodation?’
‘Yes. Where were you expecting to stay?’
‘I wasn’t,’ said Patrick. ‘This was a spur of the moment decision … I hadn’t even thought about where I might live.’
Maisie shook her head. ‘You really do like to live in the moment, don’t you?’
‘Don’t