Patrick was used to noisy bars packed with people, but not a tiny pub that was the hub of the community where he was the star attraction. Within half an hour of the Hallowe’en party kicking off, he already felt like a newborn panda at a city zoo.
Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ was belting out over the speakers so that people had to shout above the noise. Patrick would have turned the sound system down but the music was in Ray’s hands and he didn’t want to interfere.
There was standing room only in the bar. A corner had been cordoned off to create a makeshift stage with a speaker and a microphone, and was festooned with fake cobwebs with rubber bats hanging from the beams. He knew that this was his debut at the Driftwood, and that he was probably as much a part of the entertainment for the evening as any of the ‘acts’. He’d braced himself for the fact that being a newcomer in this tiny community would make him an object of interest, but he hadn’t quite been prepared for so much attention all in one go.
Ray was dressed as Dracula with Hazel as his bride. Maisie flitted about the bar in a slinky red ‘devil’ outfit and black pointy boots, which Patrick was finding a major distraction. She had a red plastic pitchfork behind the bar that she used to prod people at regular intervals.
In desperation, Patrick had decided on a makeshift Zombie outfit, ripping up an old T-shirt and, with the help of some of Hazel’s make-up and a YouTube video, had managed a passable impression of a rotting corpse. He wasn’t a natural costume-party person but had long become used to joining in themed events at the Fingle. Besides, the outfit gave him a literal and metaphorical mask to hide behind during his baptism of fire behind the bar at the Driftwood.
‘Nice costume,’ said Maisie briskly, when he’d arrived for work.
‘You too,’ he replied, trying not to make the comment sound pervy in any way, even though she looked edible in the slinky scarlet Lycra. ‘Nice … um … horns.’
‘Thanks, and may I say, being one of the living dead really suits you,’ she’d fired back in return.
They’d barely had a chance to speak since people had started arriving as soon as the doors opened at seven o’clock. Patrick had been surprised at the amount of people willing to venture out across the seas on an October night. However, he’d soon learned that most of the islanders were skilled boatmen and women, used to navigating their way around the seas of Scilly even in the dark and less than ideal conditions. Really bad conditions did keep some of the smaller vessels in port at times, that was inevitable, but fortunately it was a calm evening and no one was going to miss the Hallowe’en party night – not to mention the added attraction of an exotic new face, even if that face did look like he’d risen fresh from the grave.
Vampires, werewolves, Frankenstein’s monsters, witches, ghosts and ghouls piled into the bar. The costumes were largely homemade, some more convincing than others. In minutes, the questions and banter flew at him and he tried to give as good as he got, all the while serving drinks under Maisie’s watchful eye. You’re on trial, Patrick, mate, he told himself as she shot a sideways glance at him when she was collecting glasses. You always will be with this woman.
He turned his attention to the locals at the bar.
‘So are there crocodiles in Melbourne?’
‘Nah, mate. That’s up in the top end.’
‘Snakes and spiders?’
‘Both, and most of ’em will kill you.’
‘Bet you’re not used to this kind of weather, mate.’
‘It’s balmy here. Melbourne gets four seasons in one day and Sydney has more rain than London.’
‘Nice costume. I’d have thought you’d come as a kangaroo.’
‘What are you doing on Gull Island?’ He’d heard that one a dozen times.
‘I got fed up of the crocodiles,’ he replied.
He did his best to remember all the names and, despite the costumes, even recognised a few who he’d encountered already on the island.
There was Maisie’s friend Jess who was friendly enough but couldn’t seem to decide if she wanted to flirt with him or not. She was made up as Morticia Addams but still looked very pretty. A bloke dressed as Frankenstein’s monster seemed to have his eagle eye on her. Patrick had learned that he was ‘Adam’ and was a postman. The monster disguise suited him: he was as big and fit as a Marlee bull and kept staring at Jess and shooting less than friendly looks at Patrick for some reason.
As well as Jess and her bolt-necked admirer, Patrick recognised the middle-aged couple that ran the Fudge Pantry and the white-haired, leathery-skinned Archie Pendower who had an artist’s studio on St Piran’s. His lady friend was with him, a sharp-eyed pensioner in a long shabby velvet coat. Everyone called her ‘Fen’ and she reminded Patrick of something out of Harry Potter. Archie hadn’t bothered with a costume and Patrick wasn’t sure if Fen had or not.
Javid the campsite owner, aka Grim Reaper, wandered in before the Open Mic sessions, accompanied by Katya, who was back from a temporary teaching post abroad and planned on staying on Gull over the winter.
The entertainment started. There were singers of both sexes and all abilities, plus a very well-fed skeleton doing impressions of politicians and celebrities – not that badly either. Archie sang a sea shanty in a quavery baritone that made the hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck stand on end.
In the interval, Jess’s brother, Will, arrived with their mother. Even given Will’s werewolf costume and make-up, the family resemblance was obvious and they handed a large bunch of yellow narcissi to Hazel Samson who greeted them with a warm embrace before taking the flowers up to the flat.
Halfway through the night, a striking forty-something woman in a dog collar, cowboy boots and flashing devil’s horns walked in to the bar, carrying a pug. A man got up, said, ‘How lovely to see you, vicar,’ and greeted her like an old friend. The pug yapped when anyone approached, so the vicar, who Patrick discovered was known as Rev Bev and recently posted to Scilly, soothed it with dog treats and kisses.
As he served an endless stream of people, Patrick added the names of unfamiliar customers to his mental list, trying to remember faces, names and jobs. There were boatmen, airport workers, ferry operators, shopkeepers, nature wardens, hoteliers, waiters, farmers, fishermen and smallholders from Gull and the other isles. Some of them had two or three jobs, which added to his confusion. Those who hadn’t introduced themselves might be holidaymakers, although he doubted it. Anyone who was in the pub either lived on Gull or had their own boat, or a mate with a boat, because there were no ferries in the dark evenings.
Maisie and Jess produced sandwiches, a new batch of unburned sausage rolls and pickles and the customers fell on them like gulls round a herring boat. Glasses were refilled and the second half began. Somebody produced a banjo and Adam the postman, Will Godrevy and a few of their mates belted out some local folk tunes. By the end of their set, everyone joined in.
A chorus of voices, few of them in tune but all of them enthusiastic, shook the Driftwood Inn to the rafters. Patrick’s arms ached from building walls and pulling pints and his jaw ached from smiling. Over the past few weeks while he’d been travelling from Australia via the Far East to London and down to Scilly, he’d forgotten how hard bar work was, and how much he loved it. Doing a real job, losing himself in the crowd, serving other people helped him to avoid having time to think and dwell on other things.
Jess’s admirer, Adam, was watching him like a hawk as he served another glass of wine to her. She’d relaxed a little now and stayed next to the bar, asking Patrick about his life in Australia while he worked. Turned out she’d done some grape picking in Victoria after she’d left university and seemed happy to have someone to share her reminiscences with. Patrick had no problem spending time with her but was all too aware of Adam and the other locals keeping an eye on him. He was also aware she was Maisie’s friend, and that he was very new in town and on trial in more ways than one. There was being sociable to your boss’s attractive best friend and then there was flirting and Patrick wanted to stay the right side of the line.
‘Will you be doing a turn later?’ Jess asked as a Zombie juggler received a warm round of applause. Will began to set up the backing track for ‘Someone Like You’ by Adele ready for a woman who worked in the tourist info centre.
‘Only if I’m forced,’ said Patrick. ‘We don’t want any broken windows.’
‘Oh come on, you can’t be that bad.’
‘Wait and see … what can I get you, officer?’
Patrick took a J2O from the chiller for the island policeman who was still in semi-uniform, though not on official business apparently. While he opened the bottle he caught Jess glancing at Adam with a wistful look on her face. Adam returned the glance briefly and then pointedly turned his back. Jesus, what was wrong with the guy?
Jess bit her lip. ‘I’m going into the back to help Hazel and Maisie with the buffet,’ she said. Her eyes looked suspiciously bright to Patrick but he wasn’t going to go there. He had enough trouble keeping his own love life – or lack of it – from becoming complicated and he was sure to hear the gossip about Adam and Jess sooner or later, whether he wanted to or not. In fact, he’d learned long ago that see no evil, hear no evil and definitely speak no evil was often the best policy for a barman, as long as no laws were being broken, or only minor ones, and as long as no one was being physically harmed.
A man, about Patrick’s own age, strolled up to the bar. He wore a waxed jacket, cords and brogues like he’d stepped out of a country estate and his blond hair was damp with rain and sea spray. A black Labrador trotted in after him and stood next to him, gazing up at Patrick through soulful eyes. Faces turned towards man and dog and a few people nodded but most immediately turned back to their own conversations.
He appeared to have forgotten it was Hallowe’en.
‘Pint of the usual,’ he barked while scrolling through his phone.
‘The usual?’ Patrick echoed. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to help me out, mate. I’m new here.’
‘I know that but I thought Maisie might have briefed you on the regulars’ tastes.’
‘Not all of them,’ Patrick replied pleasantly.
‘I’m a Rat & Ferret man,’ said the man. ‘I’m Hugo Scorrier by the way.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Patrick, feeling anything but.
‘Basil. Come on.’
The dog looked at Hugo briefly, wagged his tail then ran off to sniff Archie Pendower’s trousers. Archie patted him but Hugo shot his hound an angry look.
‘Don’t let him bother you,’ he said.
‘He isn’t,’ said Archie.
Patrick went outside to the storage shed behind the pub to restock with more bottled lagers and soft drinks because even the cellar had run dry. He wedged open the door and picked up a crate but stopped short of stepping outside when he heard Maisie and Hugo Scorrier talking on the patio. They weren’t arguing but Maisie sounded agitated while Hugo’s tone was as smooth as butter. Patrick put down the crate carefully, feeling guilty for lurking in the shadows but needing to hear what was said.
‘I’m not here to spy or act like the villain,’ Hugo said.
‘I wish I believed you.’ Maisie sounded exasperated and he didn’t blame her.
‘Now, that’s not fair. You’ve known me since we were children,’ Hugo replied in a hurt tone.
Patrick peered round the door where Hugo and Maisie were highlighted by the lights spilling out from the pub kitchen. Hugo was smoking and the tip of his cigarette glowed in the dark.
Hugo put his hand on her arm. Maisie moved away. Patrick tensed.
‘Let’s not discuss this now. I’m here to enjoy a relaxed evening off.’
‘And I’m working,’ said Maisie. ‘I have to go inside.’
Patrick told himself he shouldn’t be listening and that the exchange wasn’t any business of his. Maisie didn’t need a knight in shining armour, and she wouldn’t thank him for interfering, but if Hugo Scorrier touched her again, and didn’t take the hint, Patrick would step in, no matter how pissed off Maisie might be.
Maisie hurried back into the kitchen. Patrick waited, watching Hugo inhale and blow out a long plume of smoke. Patrick could smell it from the outhouse. He picked up the crate, put it on the path outside and locked the door behind him, making as much noise as he could before marching past Hugo with the bottles.
‘Busy night,’ said Hugo, blowing smoke just as Patrick walked past.
‘It is,’ said Patrick, trying not to cough as the acrid smell filled his nose.
‘Just as well. This place needs all the help it can get, no matter what Maisie might have led you to believe.’
Patrick rattled his bottles and pretended not to hear. ‘Sorry, mate? Didn’t catch that.’
Patrick and Hugo were face to face, under the light from the back door. Smoke curled up between them. Hugo did a double take, as if Patrick had suddenly sprouted a comedy wart on the tip of his nose. The hairs on the back of Patrick’s neck stood on end but he smiled, as the heavy crate strained his arm and shoulder muscles. He felt Hugo’s contempt for him with every breath the bloke took.
Hugo smiled. ‘I’d better let you get back to your duties.’ He dropped the fag end on the patio in front of Patrick and crushed it under his boot. ‘Mate.’