Overstretched

Chapter 3

THREE

Half an hour after struggling down the hill again, the Mitsubishi sliding through the mud, Samantha in a tight ball holding onto her knees and the girls screaming, Steve swung into the ‘Galloper’s’ car park and cut the engine.

No one moved, the only sound their collective relief, all of them breathing hard and fast.

“I thought we’d roll over,” he said, eyes unblinking, staring into the rain.

“You b****y idiot.” Samantha uncoiled herself and reached across to her daughters, did her best to hold them around the shoulders. “It’s all right, we’re here. Nothing more to worry about, okay?”

They broke into quiet sobs and Samantha glared at her husband. “See if they’ve got a room.” He nodded, pulled up the zip of his coat. “You’d better b****y pray they do.”

Grunting, he struggled out of the car and disappeared into the night.

He ran doubled-up and burst into the public bar, shaking his coat, breathing hard, beating his arms.

The few customers huddled around tables close to the fire looked up like a synchronised swimming team and stared in disbelief. Steve forced a brief smile, sensing their hostility and pressed himself against the bar, hopeful of finding a friendly face.

A barmaid appeared from somewhere behind the counter, drying her hands on a threadbare cloth, impassive, eyes registering neither welcome nor indifference.

“Horrible night,” said Steve. He groped for a handkerchief, dried his mouth and nose, glanced around. The lounge bar was small, half a dozen circular tables with chairs, in the depths a dartboard, a wall-mounted jukebox silent. A few drab prints mounted on the walls, fox-hunting scenes, added to the overall sense of tired, faded neglect.

“What can I get you?” She stood, cloth now on the bar, head tilted to the right.

“I was hoping you might have a room.”

She blinked and appeared stunned, as if such a request were the most outrageous she had ever heard. She took a moment, parted her lips slightly, and glanced at the wall clock above the series of drink optics. “A room?”

“Yes, if you have one. We were to move into our new home tonight, but the storm has defeated us.”

“Defeated you?”

Was she stupid or something? Steve nodded. He pulled in a breath, knowing he had to remain calm despite the impatience and frustration gathering strength inside him. “Yes. The storm, it’s made the road impassable. We can’t get to the house. We thought if we could get a room we might try again in the morning.”

“A room?” Her eyes travelled from him to the left.

Steve followed her gaze. The customers, all men, stared back, unblinking and silent. Five of them in total, three around one table, two at another. He did not think he had ever set foot in such an unfriendly atmosphere in his life.

One of them stood. A big man, paunch straining over trousers at least a size too small. He plodded over, placed his beer glass on the counter, and measured Steve with a long look. “How many are you?”

“Four. Me, the wife, and our two daughters.”

“No pets?”

Steve frowned and shook his head. “No. It’s only for the night. Hopefully, the storm will have died down by the morning and we can—”

“Yes. You said.” He took a drink of his beer, looked at the barmaid, who shrugged. “Well. One night. Can’t do much harm, can it?”

“Not if you say so.” A moment’s silence, an exchange of telepathic thought between them both, and she sighed, “You’ll be wanting food I suppose?”

The discomfort pressed down on his shoulders. They hadn’t eaten since the stop at the motorway services, and then only some cheese rolls. They had food in the boot; a planned dinner, to be enjoyed around a roaring fire, the home-warming meal. “Yes. That really would be great.”

“Well,” she sucked in her bottom lip. “I suppose ...”

She turned and disappeared into the back again and Steve smiled at the big man, who simply lifted his glass and drank. “We don’t often get passing trade,” he said at last. “We’re not used to it, see.”

“Well, I would ordinarily—”

“Knills’ place, is it?”

Steve did a double-take. “I’m sorry?”

“The house you’re moving into. Knills?”

He shook his head again, lost with the questions, questions which made no sense. “Knills? I don’t understand.”

The man sighed, drained his glass and leant back against the counter. “The big old house on the hill. Old man Knills owns it. Bit of a recluse he is. You’ll be working for him, will you?”

“Working for ... no, no. We’ve rented the other house, with a view to buying it perhaps. The one further down the hillside.”

“Barnside?”

Steve looked perplexed.

“That’s it, the name of the other house. Barnside. Been up for sale for ...” He pursed his lips and turned to the others. “How long has Barnside been up for sale, Jonty?”

Jonty, muffled in a duffle coat and scarf, coughed and swilled his whisky around the bottom of his glass. “Couldn’t say, Mitch. A year?”

“Eighteen months more like,” said another.

“Eighteen months ...” Mitch shook his head. “Well, there’s a thing. Time goes quick, doesn’t it?”

“Yes. I suppose it does.”

“And you’re not working for him? What would you be doing buying such a place as Barnside, all this way out here? Pop star, are you? Singer?”

Steve almost laughed, wanted to tell this Mitch such an idea was ludicrous in the extreme. He also wanted to correct him. They were renting, not buying. But he didn’t. Why should he? And, as for Mitch, a great barndoor of a man … Barndoor, Barnside. Steve studied him. The man’s hands were like plates, his shoulders as broad as a doorway, arms thick as railway sleepers. Despite his gut, the man oozed danger. Steve smiled instead. “Not working for him. No such luck. I’m an accountant.”

A few sniggers from the others before they turned back to their morbid silence, interest on the wane. Mitch, eyes twinkling, rapped his knuckles on the bar. “Hear that, Wendy? This man here is an accountant.”

She emerged, sporting a pinny tied tightly around her slim waist. A tiny film of sweat made her brow shine. “Is that what he is?” Her eyes roamed over Steve and then she went back to the interior.

“And you’re working for Knills?”

“No. For a training centre down in Chester.”

Mitch nodded, as if the disclosure answered every subsequent question he might have, and he pushed himself upright and clapped his hands. “More beer, that’s the answer.”

“I’ll ...” Steve motioned to the door. “I’ll go and get the others. Then, maybe we could see the room?”

Mitch said nothing, just eased his way around the other side of the counter, lifting the flap, and moving to the beer pumps. He used his old glass, whistled tunelessly as he filled it with squirts of good English ale.

Steve watched for a moment before going back outside. He let out his breath in a long stream and saw their eager faces pressed against the passenger windows. He raised a thumb but didn’t smile. An awful sense of dread fell over him and he wondered, for the first time since leaving Norwich, if this move would prove the most disastrous decision he had ever made.