The woman shrugged and selected a clean glass from above her head. The man was watching him carefully.
‘Are you just passing through, friend?’
‘Well, you’d be about right,’ Bisto nodded. ‘I have a château in France. I’m on my way there now. I just thought I’d stop for a quick one before I’m off again.’
The man raised an eyebrow; he clearly thought Bisto wasn’t telling the truth and Bisto wasn’t surprised. He glanced down at himself, unkempt and dirty. He groaned – his outside appearance was nothing to how dreadful he was feeling inside. The woman handed over the beer. Bisto grasped his glass and made his way over to a dark corner, making himself comfortable in his seat before he supped the top from the Murphy’s.
He gazed around the bar. There were two people seated separately. One was a young man with neat dark hair and a full beard, sitting on a stool sipping coffee. The other was a woman with long grey curly hair, perched over a laptop, a glass of red wine on the table. She wore little round glasses and tapped the keys delicately. Bisto thought she looked like a studious fairy. He nodded over to her.
‘Hello,’ he murmured. ‘Are you writing poems?’
She shook her fluffy hair and turned piercing grey eyes on him, quizzically, like a Siamese cat. ‘It’s a novel, actually.’
‘A novel, is it?’ Bisto sipped his beer. ‘And are you famous? Have I heard of you?’
‘You may have.’ She wriggled in her seat, a sort of provocative curling of her body. ‘I’m editing my next bestseller. I’m Tilly Hardy.’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Tilly. I’m Bisto Mulligan.’
‘Bisto? That’s an unusual name.’
Bisto chuckled. ‘I was always sniffing up at my mammy’s cooking when I was a snapper, a face like the kiddies in the gravy advert. She gave me the nickname herself.’ For a moment, he became pensive, then he tipped the glass to his mouth. ‘Can I get a lady writer a drink, Tilly?’
She made a face. ‘I’m just a writer and no, thanks. This Shiraz will last me. I have just this one passionate scene to edit and then I’m finished and off home.’
Bisto stood up, plucking his glass from the table. ‘This didn’t last me five minutes. I’d better slow down.’ He ambled to the bar, plonking his empty glass in front of the barman. ‘Same again, will you, friend?’
The barman remembered what he had ordered, pouring Murphy’s without a word. Bisto caught the eye of the dark-haired bearded man seated on the stool, finishing his coffee. Bisto leaned over and called out, his voice too loud. ‘Can I fill your cup for you with another one of the same?’
The dark-haired man shook his head. ‘Thanks, no. I’m on my way back to work in a moment. I just popped over for a quick shot of caffeine.’
Bisto lifted his glass. ‘Sláinte.’ He glugged a mouthful and smacked his lips. It was warm and homely in the bar. ‘So, you’re on your lunch break? What is it that you do?’
The bearded man drained the dregs from his cup. ‘I’m a GP. I share the local practice with my wife.’
‘Doctor, eh?’ Bisto’s eyes twinkled. ‘You sure I can’t buy you a scoop? It can’t be easy, the both of yous being doctors in one house.’
The man met his eyes, his own a little misty, then slid down from the stool and picked up his bag. ‘Thanks, no. It’ll be just me soon. My wife’s about to go on maternity leave.’
Bisto sipped his Murphy’s. ‘Ah, a kiddie on the way eh? Oh, that’s grand. I remember when I … ah.’ He gazed into the murky swirl of his glass.
Bisto watched the bearded doctor walk away and a feeling of sadness stuck in his throat. He turned back to the barman with the cropped hair, wondering where the pretty woman with the chestnut plait had disappeared to. Then he lifted his glass carefully and slunk back to his seat in the shadowy corner. The novelist Tilly Hardy had gone. He thought about the last few weeks in Dublin, and everything that had happened. He’d been smartly dressed then, he’d had money, but he’d carried a heavy pain in his heart that still hadn’t left him. He finished the last mouthful of beer, taking a long draught and enjoying the taste of bitterness on his tongue.
6
Pauline put her hands to her ears, but she could still hear Barbara’s voice drifting from the little conservatory.
‘I like proper brown bread, soft bread. Not the rough old stuff with bits of grains in it that you bake here. And couldn’t you just buy some margarine? Butter is so cloying.’
Pauline washed the potatoes in the Belfast sink, watching the muddy water drain away down the plug hole. She raised her voice. ‘I thought you came here to sort out your blood pressure, Barbara. You’re not doing yours or mine any good.’
Barbara stalked in and plonked herself down at the kitchen table. ‘That cold old conservatory needs ripping down, all the rotten wood burning and a proper one building in its place.’
‘Douglas was always going to build a timber garden room. He said it would be lovely to look out on the garden on a Sunday in summer with a tipple and read the papers.’ Pauline sighed.
‘A UPVC one, clean and white, with proper double-glazed insulation.’ Barbara clamped her lips together. ‘And I need to buy an electric blanket. I’m freezing in bed at night.’
Pauline busied herself with scrubbing the potatoes. They were clean already, but she wanted to keep her hands busy and her thoughts occupied or she’d be tempted to say something blunt in reply.
Barbara hadn’t finished. ‘I don’t suppose I can buy an electric blanket in Whimsy Green.’
‘Winsley Green. I have a hot water bottle you can use.’
Barbara was aghast. ‘I’ll get chilblains.’
Pauline dried her hands. ‘All right. Let’s go into the village and buy a few things. I need carrots anyway.’
‘Oh, not stew again, Pauline. I can’t bear it. My bowels are all out of sorts…’
‘I don’t want to hear it, Barbara.’ Pauline snatched the keys from the hook shaped like a piglet on the kitchen wall. ‘Are you coming or not?’
‘Of course I’m coming. I can’t leave the organisation of the evening meal to you. Tonight we’ll have chops.’
‘I can’t afford chops.’
Barbara put her hands on her hips. ‘Well you should get your fancy farmer man friend to bring you a nice bit of pork.’
Pauline caught her sister’s eye and stared at her, offered her best smirk then turned on her heel and marched out.
Bisto blinked hard as he came out of the dark into the brightness of the spring day. It was almost two o’clock and he had some money left in his pocket. He decided that the publican was a nice man. Oskar and his wife Justina had been a bit distant at first. He could understand why they might have been suspicious: he was a new customer and he didn’t look or smell his best. But they’d supplied him with two glasses of beer in exchange for his money: it was a fair deal. Now he’d find the shelter of a tree in the sunshine and snooze for the afternoon, then he’d get on a bus for Plymouth with the change. He had enough. He smiled and sauntered across the road.
He didn’t see the car coming. The noise of screeching breaks and another squeal, higher and more alarming, had filled his ears first, and then his own voice, a sudden yell of shock.