Ryde Pier was Isabel’s stop, and after the bus had nosed its way into the interchange, she hopped off, calling out a curt thank you to the driver. She was glad of her choice of jumper and jeans because the breeze off the water was bracing and the sky ominous. Isabel shivered despite her warm clothes, and swinging her pack onto her back she set off down the Esplanade. It had been years since she’d been here and she decided to have a wander about and get a feel for the place. She’d see what was about in the way of accommodation too and if nothing leaped out at her, she could always search for a room on her phone.
She turned left at the lights and began the gentle climb away from the seafront. A short distance ahead she saw a middle-aged couple blowing clouds of smoke into the air outside a lime washed pub. Above their head was a sign for the Rum Den. She was thirsty, and it looked as good a place as any for a pit stop. She pushed open the door and stepped inside surprised at how busy it was for a Saturday afternoon thanks to a pub quiz that was underway. A chap with a top hat stood on the small stage in the corner of the low beamed space. He was holding a microphone in one hand and reading a question off the card he held in his other.
Isabel’s gaze moved over to the bar as she sensed she was being stared at. A woman stood behind it, eyeing her curiously. She had jet black teased hair and tapped her long fingernails, inset with sparkly jewels on the expansive timber splayed out before her as she waited, Isabel presumed, for her to place her order. ‘Alright, Luv,’ came a decidedly Cockney voice as she raised a penciled in eyebrow. ‘What can I get you then?’
Isabel stopped hovering in the doorway, took a deep breath and smiled as she put her best foot forward. ‘Hi, um, I’ll just have a lemonade please.’ She took her pack off and leaned it up against the bar before perching on a stool.
‘That’ll be one pound sixty ta, and it’s Rod Stewart,’ the publican said sliding Isabel’s glass of lemonade toward her a tick later. She leaned across the bar and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Rocking Rod rocks my world. I almost considered dying my hair blonde for him back in my day.’ Her eyes flicked over Isabel’s hair. ‘What colour do you call that then?’
‘Erm, green.’ Isabel fished the money from her purse wondering why on earth the woman was on about Rod Stewart.
‘You, young ones always think you’re the first to do everything; you know David Bowie was doing his orange before you were even a twinkle in your father’s eye.’
‘I’ll repeat that,’ the Quizmaster said into his microphone distracting them both. ‘Which famous singer, was an apprentice for the then third division Brentford Town Football Club?’
Isabel twigged, the answer was Rod Stewart. The publican wasn’t a complete nutter then. ‘My dad’s a big Rod fan, although Bruce Springsteen is his all-time favourite. I’m more into classical music. I love opera.’ She didn’t often confide that she loved the genre, and she certainly never told anyone about her dream of seeing Andrea Bocelli sing at Teatro del Silenzio near the tenor’s home in Tuscany. It all seemed a little too highfalutin for an unemployed twenty-six-year-old from Southampton. There was something about this woman’s forthright manner that invited her to share though.
‘We don’t have much call for opera and the like around these parts.’
‘Ooh, ooh I know this one, I know it.’ A woman’s voice carried across the array of glasses on her table closest to the stage. Isabel glanced over to see her jiggling about in her seat.
‘That’s one of the regulars, Linda, and she’ll wet herself if she’s not careful. I’m Brenda by the way.’
‘Isabel,’ she replied with a smile before taking a sip of her drink. It was cold and sweet, just what she needed.
‘Where are you from then, Isabel who loves opera, and what brings you to Wight?’
‘I’m from Southampton, but I’ve just returned from a working holiday in Australia and, well I just fancied a few days break on the island before I settle back down.’
‘And what did you do for a crust in Australia then?’
‘Bar work mostly,’ Isabel replied, putting her glass down.
‘So, you’re in between jobs at the mo?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ Applying for the McDonald’s job had been put on hold, for a few days at least.
‘And where are you planning on staying while you’re here?’ Brenda eyed Isabel’s pack.
‘I haven’t sorted anywhere out yet; I thought I’d have a wander around and see what was about.’
‘There’s a room you can doss down in tonight upstairs if you like. Me lodger’s away.’
‘Oh.’ Isabel was taken aback.
‘I won’t charge you board neither if you give us a hand behind the bar. I’ve been run off me feet since Patsy up and left.’
Isabel necked her lemonade, startled by what had just transpired—a few hours work in exchange for a night’s lodging—she would not look a gift horse, so to speak, in the mouth.
‘That would be great, thank you.’
Brenda waved her thanks aside. ‘Right then. Let’s see if you can handle this lot when they break in ten minutes. You can stick your pack out the back for now.’ She lifted the flip top of the bar and beckoned her over to the other side.
͠
The quizmaster put down his microphone, having just told his contestants he was taking a short break. This news was followed by a mass scraping of chairs as a tidal wave of thirsty punters surged toward the bar. Isabel felt like her feet were frozen in the path of the migrating wildebeest on a prairie plain. Bloody–hell talk about being thrown in at the deep end, she thought as the patch of skin that had flared up on her neck began to burn with intensity. Come on Isabel you can do this. She took a deep breath and followed Brenda’s cue, watching the maestro at work before launching into action herself.
It was like getting back on a bicycle after she’d fallen off it. The drinks were slightly different, and it was pounds, not Australian dollars that was all. ‘Hi everyone. If you could just bear with me while I find my way around this bar I’ll get to you all in just a tick.’ She smiled at a man with a paunch pushing his glass toward her. ‘Right then sir, what can I get you?’
‘Half a pint of bitter love. Where’ve you popped up from then?’
‘I called in for a drink and when Brenda heard I’d worked in pubs before she asked me to give her a hand,’ Isabel said, going on to give him an abbreviated backstory of having just come home from overseas and fancying a few days on Wight.
‘I didn’t think she was a caulkhead, not with that hair,’ a woman who looked to be a hardy seafaring type said, eyeing her suspiciously over the top of her lemon and bitters.
The word she’d used, caulkhead, tickled at the back of Isabel’s mind, but she couldn’t remember what it meant.
‘It means Islander. That sort of thing matters to this lot, but if they like you, they’ll treat you like family,’ Brenda whispered out the corner of her mouth spying Isabel’s puzzled expression as she reached for a packet of pork scratchings. ‘I’m a Cockney, and they never let me forget it, but when my husband left they rallied around me, so I stayed.’
The last of the customers carried her gin and tonic back to the table to join her team who were waiting with their pencils poised, for the quizmaster to launch into his spiel. The topic was sports. She’d be no help to them, Isabel thought breathing out a sigh of relief as she looked at the empty bar area and the tables full of happy customers.
‘I don’t know what you’re standing there grinning about; you should be cracking on with this lot,’ Brenda said, pulling open the dishwasher tucked away under the bar. A gush of steam burst forth. It was full of glasses and Isabel set about emptying it.
͠
The pub doors closed at 4.30, reopening for the evening at 6 p.m. Isabel began clearing the glasses. ‘So you’re a Cockney, Brenda.’
‘Born and bred. I’ve two sons, in their thirties they are, still living in the East End.’
Isabel instantly pictured the Mitchell
brothers from EastEnders.
‘What brought you to Wight then?’ They had plenty of pubs in the East End so far as Isabel knew.
‘The old man wanted a lifestyle change, so we bought the pub here. Six months down the line he left me for the twenty-one-year-old tart we took on behind the bar. Last I heard they’re back in the East End running a pub there. I don’t ask, and me boys don’t tell me.’ She shrugged. ‘I stayed on here, cos like I said, the locals looked after me. That was five years ago now.’
‘Oh.’ Isabel couldn’t think of much else to say to that.
‘What’s your story then Miss? What is it that brings you to Ryde other than putting off settling back down in Southampton?’
Isabel hesitated. ‘Well, it’s pretty much what I said before. I’ve been overseas for a year, and I’m just here for a bit of a break before I crack on with finding full–time work back in Southampton.’
Brenda paused mid table wipe and eyed her speculatively through mascara rimmed eyes. ‘In my experience, most people your age don’t come over here on their own for a bit of a break and especially not without booking somewhere to stay first.’
Isabel didn’t meet her gaze as she carried the glasses she’d collected over to the bar.
‘So come on then, they don’t call me Brenda the Bloodhound for nuffink. What’s your real story? I’m not buying this just here for a bit of a break malarkey.’
‘Do you really get called that?’
‘No, but I’m not letting it go.’
Isabel pursed her lips; she could see she wasn’t going to get out of this one, she might as well come clean. And so as she set about loading the dishwasher, she told Brenda about what had transpired at the end of her trip around New Zealand.
Brenda had stopped wiping the tables, so engrossed in listening to Isabel’s story. ‘Well, I can see how you’d feel obliged to try and keep your word to the old gal what with her dying on you and all.’ Her brow furrowed giving her a perplexed poodle look. ‘You know thinking about it, Constance ain't that common a name, and there was a Constance who was quite well known around these parts. Bit of a character she was, ran a herbal medicine shop down on the Esplanade for years. I fink it’s an art gallery or sumthink now. The last I ‘eard she’d gone into a retirement home. There’s three I know of here in Ryde; chances are you’ll find her in one of those if you go door knocking. She could well be the woman you’re looking for.’
Isabel felt a frisson of excitement. It felt like too much of a coincidence for her not to be Ginny’s Constance and she was still alive! She’d just been given her first clue on her journey to fulfilling her promise, and she’d gone no further than the first pub she’d stumbled across!
‘Mind with all them privacy laws now it might pay to pretend you’re long lost family or sumthink.’
Brenda was right, Isabel realised. ‘I could say Constance is my great aunt, and—’ Isabel thought for a sec and then had a brainwave. ‘She fell out with my nan; they lost touch and nan made me promise before she passed on that I’d find her and say she was sorry about everything that had happened.’
‘A half-truth.’
‘Exactly.’
Brenda winked at her; they were co-conspirators.
‘Right then, that’s sorted. Now it seems to me that you might need to earn a few pounds to keep yourself going while you’re ere. And seeing as I need a barmaid, you’ve got yourself some hours for as long as you need them. If you want them like?’
Isabel nodded so hard she jarred her neck. She didn’t quite believe her luck.
Brenda grinned, revealing teeth that reminded Isabel of a pony with a somewhat vicious streak she’d once ridden at a fair as a child. She rubbed her neck while Brenda got down to business.
‘The going rate’s five pounds fifty pence. I’d expect you on board from midday with a tea break from four–thirty to six, Friday to Sunday then it’s all hands on deck until eleven o’clock closing. Monday’s your day off and Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday I need you here for the evening shift only.’ She stalked over to the door behind the bar, her hand resting on the knob as she winced, ‘Me bloody bunions are killing me. So what do you say?’
Pub work would be marginally better for her figure than working at a fast food joint, and it meant she wouldn’t have to listen to her dad’s endless supply of leprechaun jokes for a bit, Isabel thought, She glanced down at her new boss’s black stilettos; she wasn’t surprised her feet were sore.
‘Well then?’ Brenda tapped her foot and then thought better of it.
‘Oh, sorry. It sounds brilliant, Brenda thank you.’ Wait until she told her mum she’d scored a job and she hadn’t had to do a thing to her hair!
‘Right, sorted. Come on then, I need to get off my feet for half an hour. I’ll show you where you can kip down tonight. Like I said, me lodger Terry’s away for a couple of nights, and he won't mind you ‘aving his room. You can sort yourself out something more permanent over the next day or two. It's good timing you showing up like this what with me barmaid Patsy leaving me last week. She wanted more time to help look after her daughter’s little ‘un, but she didn’t half leave me in the lurch.’
Isabel shook her head in wonderment at how the day was unfolding before following Brenda up the narrow stairs, being careful not to scrape her backpack against the old floral wallpaper on either side of her. It was already beginning to peel in places and didn’t need a helping hand from her. She could see a small lounge at the top of the landing which looked homely and lived in, but Brenda turned to the right. ‘Bathroom’s in there,’ she said, opening a door and gesturing to the bath with a blue shower curtain, but not slowing down. ‘And this ‘ere is where you are.’ The room was spartan but clean with a small double bed, and a window open just a crack to allow the salted air to waft in. ‘I’ll get you some fresh sheets, and you can make the bed up while I heat us up the shepherd's pie I made earlier for our dinner.’
Isabel leaned her pack up against the wardrobe and sat down on the end of the bed feeling bewildered by the pace at which she’d found both work and accommodation for the night. It seemed she just might stay here on Wight longer than she’d thought.
Chapter 7
Isabel woke smartly thanks to a particularly noisy bird full of the joys of spring outside the window, but despite not getting her full eight hours, she felt strangely energized. This was not the norm. She could never be accused of being a morning person and had spent most of her teen years being woken by her mum ripping open her curtains. This was followed by her announcing that Isabel was sleeping her life away before, her grand finale, yanking the covers off her.
Despite the strange surroundings, she’d gone out like a light last night only waking once for the loo. She’d been shattered by her unexpected shift at the Rum Den, downstairs the day before.
Her hair was still in the messy top knot she’d tied it into on the boat yesterday. She threw a sweater over the top of her pajamas and wondered if Brenda was up and about as she mooched forth. The barefaced publican was reading the paper at the table with an empty plate and mug beside her. She looked at Isabel over the top of her reading glasses. ‘Ere she is then, Sleeping Beauty, or is it Shrek? You obviously slept well. Knock yourself out did yer?’
Isabel flushed. ‘Sorry about the noise, Brenda. I should’ve put the bedroom light on when I got up for the toilet. I tripped over my shoes.’ Her knees were a bit tender she realised, recalling how she’d gone flying. A mental image of her mother shaking her head popped up in front of her, and she could hear her saying, ‘For the hundredth time Isabel, watch where you’re going! You’ll come a proper cropper one of these days my girl.’
‘Ah well, no harm done. Help yourself to coffee and toast. Paper’s yours too if you want a read.’ She folded it up noisily before gesturing to the bench where the kettle sat waiting alongside the toaster. ‘I’m off to put me face on.’ A frown settled between her non-existent brows as she peered at Isabel’s neck. ‘That looks
nasty. Have you got summit you can put on it?’
Isabel’s hand flew to the spot behind her ear; it was hot and sore to the touch, which she hoped didn’t mean she was starting with an infection. She must have been scratching at it in her sleep. ‘My eczema's been playing up since I got back to the UK. I’ve got some stuff in my pack that helps a bit. Hopefully, it will settle down, and I won't have to go to the doctor for a steroid prescription.’
‘We’ve all got our crosses to bear,’ Brenda tutted and watching her hobble off to the bathroom, Isabel assumed she was talking about her bunions. She shook her head at the memory of the heels Brenda wore for the duration of her shift. No wonder her feet were crippling her! There was no time to sit around lamenting Brenda’s bunions though, she thought, galvanizing herself into action. She set about making coffee and toast and then in between sips and bites wrote down the names of all the local retirement homes both in and around Ryde. There were seven worth calling on. By the time she’d showered and dressed, and the double-check list of homes to call in on was tucked away safely in her bag, she felt ready to take on the day.
‘I’ll be back at twelve, Brenda. Thanks so much for letting me stay last night and for the shifts.’
Brenda looking much more like the same woman she’d met yesterday now her eyebrows were back in place and her lips a shade of red no other woman would get away with at this hour of the day, shooed her on her way.
Isabel began her search for Constance by ticking off the furthermost care home on the list she’d compiled. It was a short bus ride over to Wootton Bridge and the home she saw making her way to the entrance sat in impressive leafy grounds near the sea. The staff looked at her curiously, and whether it was because of her inquiry or her hair, she wasn’t sure. Either way, there was no Constance currently residing with them, they’d assured her. Oh well, she thought, as she waited for the bus to take her back to the centre of Ryde. It would have been far too easy had she found Constance in the very first place she called at. Besides, it was only just after nine. The morning stretched long; she had plenty of time.
The Promise Page 5
