I walked along the street, breathing in the sea air and listening to the cries of the gulls. Okay, so my phone was a brick and I didn’t even have any milk, but shit, this place was gorgeous. Nothing like sun, sea, and salt air to strip my earlier pessimism away.
I checked the museum, but the door was closed. The sign in the window didn’t give any indication of opening hours, but maybe Eddie would be around sometime later. It was pretty obvious that if I was going to make a friend on the island, it was going to be him. Mostly because he was the only person who’d actually spoken to me.
A few houses on the other side of the museum, I turned left and headed away from the harbour wall down a road that was as crooked as a dog’s back leg. A woman wearing jeans and a flannelette shirt watched me from her front doorstep.
“Good morning,” I said. “I’m?—”
She stepped inside and closed the door.
Okay then.
I found the shop a few houses up, right where the village gave way to grass and trees, and the slope of a hill that steepened sharply as it led up to the lighthouse. There wasn’t much to indicate it was a shop, except for the sign in the window. The sign was written very aggressively in black marker:
OPEN 7 AM. CLOSED 7 PM. THIS MEANS YOU YOUNG HARRY BARNES.
The bells on the door jingled brightly as I pushed it open. An older woman—the same one I’d last seen yelling at the blokes from the ferry—glared at me from behind the counter. Tufts of grey hair poked out from underneath a knitted beanie. There were deep furrows running down either side of her pinched mouth, and her eyes were narrowed to slits.
“Hi, I said, pretending she didn’t have a face like murder. “My name’s Dominic Miller. I’m the new senior constable here on the island.” I held my hand out to her over the counter.
She looked at my hand and made no move to take it. Then she huffed. “Mavis Coldwell.”
I pulled my hand back. “It’s nice to meet you. How long have you been running this place?”
The furrows by her mouth deepened. “This is a shop, not a discotheque. Either buy something or leave.”
“I actually need to buy some milk,” I said, my fixed smile trying its hardest not to crumble in the face of her hostility.
“I’m out,” she said, and turned her attention back to the magazine on the counter.
“Okay,” I said. “What about those tins of milk powder right there?”
She looked at me, and then looked down at her magazine again. Licked her thumb and turned the page. “Those are spoken for.”
Okay then.
We stared at each other for a moment longer, and then the bells on the door rang again.
Another familiar face, though I doubt he remembered me. It was the guy from the ferry yesterday. The hungover one. He looked a little brighter this morning. He had a narrow face and a long nose that made him look very serious. His dark hair was cut shorter on the sides, but longer on top where it almost curled. He was wearing a hoodie and jeans and boots that were stained with mud.
“Mavis,” he said, and then snapped his mouth shut as he caught sight of me. He nodded.
“Morning, Robbie,” Mavis said. She stepped out from behind the counter and brushed past me. Then she held the door of the shop open as Robbie darted back outside, only to return moments later lugging a massive steel churn. He headed out the back with it, presumably to a cold room.
“Is that milk?” I asked.
Mavis glowered at me. “Yes, it’s milk. And I sell it to my regular customers. Those that have ordered it.”
Robbie ducked past me again.
“I just want some for my cereal and my coffee,” I said.
Mavis leaned back as Robbie hauled in a second churn. “Well, that’s none of my business, is it?”
Robbie gave a small snort at that.
“Okay,” I said. “Can I put in an order for next time, please?”
“There’s a waiting list,” she said, folding her arms over her chest.
