Thursday
Dev
He takes his time walking down the hill, his boots sinking slightly into the dusty path, the warm air wafting across his face. The village sprawls to the left. It looks like a postcard with its neat, chocolate-box cottages with chimneys, slate roofs streaked with moss.
After calling at B&Q in Kendal and making a detour to a jeweller where he purchased Merri a small gift, he’d parked at the top of the road that passes Lakeview House to enjoy the walk down to the pub. He could have popped in to tell Merri he’s meeting Jack at the pub for a pint or two, but he knows what her reaction will be if he tells her beforehand. She doesn’t fully trust Jack yet.
The sun hits the back of his neck as he treads the path close to the lake, listening to the soft murmur of water lapping against the bank. An occasional breeze stirs the leaves overhead, offering a fleeting relief from the heat.
Dev rounds the bend, and there it is: the Pike and Anchor. The old stone-built pub huddles at the base of the hill as though bracing itself against the wind that blows off the river in the cooler months. Its sign creaks softly as it swings, the painted letters faded and chipped around the edges. It occurs to Dev that everything usually thought of as tired andill-maintained elsewhere, seems to be regarded as bearing a quaint sort of charm around here.
Behind the pub, he catches a side-on view of a beer garden that sprawls along the edge of the riverbank. A few wooden picnic tables are occupied by locals in flat caps, nursing pints, and a couple with young kids.
Ever-present, the hypnotic expanse of lake moves almost imperceptibly beyond them. Dev never tires of looking at it.
He pushes through the heavy wooden door into the warmth beyond. The fuggy air hits him first – thick with the scents of wood smoke, beer, and the faint tang of old varnish. It’s as if the place has been steeped in years of quiet conversations and damp coats drying by the fire. Low beams have darkened with age, and criss-cross the ceiling, while the crooked walls provide a home to tarnished brasses, framed black-and-white photographs, and old maps of the area.
Coming in here after spending so much time at Lakeview House, Dev feels as if he’s entered a nineteenth-century portal where the surroundings have remained virtually unchanged. A cluster of men and dogs sit close to the fire, although it’s a warm day. The stone walls must be a foot thick and the warmth outside barely penetrates.
The low voices of the customers mingle with the occasional scrape of a chair leg against the stone floor. By the bar, a woman in a bright jumper laughs with a friend, her glass tilted in her hand. Two older men approach the dartboard on the far wall.
Suddenly the chatter all but stops. All eyes slide towards him, the incomer. Some look away again, but others keep their gaze trained on him for longer. Shrinking from the unwelcome attention, Dev is relieved to see that Jack is already here, standing at the bar with a pint in hand. He spots Devand raises his glass in a casual salute, saying something to the barman. Dev grins and joins him, sliding onto the stool Jack has claimed.
‘Good timing,’ Jack says, lifting his pint.
‘You new to that glass palace up yonder then?’ The barman – a wiry man with a red face and watchful eyes – pulls him a pint with studied precision.
Dev nods, keen to take this chance to set the story straight. ‘That’s right. And just so you know, we’re going to be living there, not renting the place out.’
The barman’s expression doesn’t change.
Once the pint is in his hand, Dev turns back to Jack. ‘I’ve been meaning to say thanks again for fixing the glass.’
Jack waves him off, but there’s a flash of pleasure across his face. ‘No bother. Keeps me busy.’
‘It’s much appreciated. You’re a useful man to know. You seem able to turn your hand to anything.’
‘Just practice.’ Jack shrugs. ‘Grew up with it, fixing things. You learn fast when you’ve got no choice but to do stuff yourself.’
They fall into easy conversation. Dev likes Jack’s friendly, open manner, finds him straightforward in a way that’s both refreshing and rare. It doesn’t take long for the topic to wind its way to cars. Dev learns that Jack, like him, has a passion for vintage models – beautiful beasts that demand equal parts patience and obsession.
‘Got a favourite you’d like to own?’ Dev asks, leaning forward.
Jack’s face lights up. ‘I’d love a Jaguar E-Type. A Series 1, if I ever get the chance.’ He laughs softly. ‘One day, maybe. Right now, me and Sarah are trying to save for a deposit.’
‘A house?’
‘Yeah.’ Jack scratches his chin. ‘Sarah’s desperate to buy our own place. Not much fun renting for ever, is it? Like I tell her, it’ll take us a while, but we’ll get there.’
There’s no resentment in his voice, just quiet determination. Dev likes that about Jack – his lack of pretence.
Jack falls quiet and Dev notices for the first time how he sits hunched over his drink, looking like he hasn’t slept. His hair is messy and dark stubble creeps along his jaw.
The dim pub’s electric lights throw shadows over the scuffed wooden tables and Dev swirls his pint slowly, foam sliding down the inside of the glass. ‘Long week?’ he asks, trying to keep his tone casual.
Jack huffs out a bitter laugh. ‘You could say that.’ He takes a gulp of beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Business is slow at Mower World and everything is …’ he shakes his head ‘… just a bit shit, if I’m honest, mate.’
Dev nods, but something in Jack’s expression urges him to prod a bit further. He’s gathered from the odd remark Jack has made that he works long shifts with early starts at Mower World – but he looks different today. His shoulders slump forwards, as if he’s under some invisible weight, and he looks more like someone who’s worn out from worry than hard graft.
