A few days later, Patrick stared into his untouched pint of Coke as if the answers to the questions swirling round his brain could be found in its sweet and fizzy depths. It was mid-afternoon and he’d decided to call in to the Galleon in Hugh Town before meeting Maisie and the rest of the gang at the Nativity Parade.
Since the barbecue, he’d found it hard to stay in the party mood, even though it seemed to be a big hit with everyone else. On the surface he’d had a good time and truly felt as if this community had taken him into their hearts in a very short space of time. The fact that he’d come up with a load of stuff for the renovation project had added to his popularity, although he didn’t think that was the only reason. They were a friendly bunch, willing to give a newcomer a chance. As long as he didn’t start taking himself too seriously and mucked in, he could have a good time here.
But what about Maisie?
Did he detect a subtle cooling in her attitude towards him since the BBQ? Was she a tiny bit warier around him, for some reason?
Patrick contemplated the bottom of his glass again.
If Maisie had been doubting him, Patrick had been doubting himself far more. It was precisely because he’d had such a great time at the barbecue and working on the renovations that he found himself now hunkered down in a booth in a corner furthest away from the bar at the Galleon.
The four-hundred-year-old pub’s granite walls clung to the quayside above the harbour and in the summer, according to Will, was jammed with day-trippers and tourists on their way to and from the ferry. Its smoke-blackened beams, low ceilings and tiny windows barely let in any light on a sunny day, but on a gloomy December afternoon like this one the place was cave-like despite all the lamps being on.
It was on days like this that he longed for the dazzling waterfront at St Kilda’s beach or to feel the sun beating down as festive revellers enjoyed a cocktail overlooking the Yarra at the Fingle Bar. And it was at times like this that he really missed a pint – or a Scotch – or a double vodka. Anything, in fact, to dull the nagging pangs of shame and guilt that had tugged at him since the barbecue.
Oh, Maisie, Maisie, Maisie. What had he done to her? He hated lying to her, but it was too late. Since he’d decided to stay on Gull, and walked into the Driftwood, his little white lies had stacked up like a pile of guano, but they were nothing compared to the great big lie that underpinned the whole shit heap.
He’d promised to meet Maisie, Will, Jess and the rugby boys after the Nativity Parade. He’d told Maisie he was going to do his Christmas shopping first, which had elicited a snort of disbelief, followed by a reference to not being able to carry home all her presents, then an embarrassed jokiness about how he wasn’t to expect anything in his stocking. Patrick knew her too well.
She was worried in case she’d implied that he was going shopping to get a gift for her and trying to cover her foot-in-mouth moment with a sarcastic joke.
Well, he had intended to buy her a present, but having scoured the gift and clothing shops for an hour, he’d given up and found himself a dark corner in the pub. It was still early in the afternoon, the lunchtime rush was over and people hadn’t started arriving for the Nativity Parade yet, so the bar was relatively quiet.
Now he knew how those unfortunates who were tied to horses and sent off in different directions felt. He’d never been so torn. Greg must have known that sending him to Gull Island would cause a load of trouble. Greg must have known it would be complicated for Patrick to open up wounds by returning home … to his real home.
Greg. The cunning bugger. Judy had known, too, what might happen. Patrick came close to hating them both for a second … but how could either of them have known about Maisie? In his phone calls to Judy he hadn’t mentioned her or any woman, beyond the fact she was his boss. Judy didn’t even know if Maisie was sixty-nine or thirty-nine and he’d been careful not to betray any hint of his relationship with her.
But he couldn’t blame Greg or Judy for his present dilemma. It had been his own decision to offer his services at the Driftwood and his own fault to put his hand so close to the fire and to hold it inside. Now it looked like he might get burned, and badly too.
‘Shit,’ he muttered and took a sip of his ‘pint’. It tasted like rusty oil. He’d love a beer, he needed a beer …
‘Mind if I join you?’
Patrick forced a brief grimace of welcome to his face. Hugo Scorrier was the last person he wanted to keep him company, not that he wanted company at all. He heard scuffling on the floorboards and something heavy and furry settled on his boots.
‘Suit yourself, mate, though I’m not the best company,’ he said as Basil made himself comfortable.
‘Why’s that? Something on your mind?’
‘Just knackered. Busy at the pub and I’m too old for this game.’
‘What game would that be?’ asked Hugo.
‘Life.’
‘Ah. I can understand what you mean. I sometimes feel the same myself.’
Patrick wrinkled his nose as a rank rotting cabbage smell wafted up from beneath the table. He glanced down and two dark brown eyes gazed up at him.
Hugo sat down on the chair opposite and pursed his lips. ‘Sorry about Basil. I’m afraid he snaffled some old biddy’s plate at the community Christmas lunch. She and her friends had piled all their leftover sprouts onto it and the effects have been making themselves known ever since. Bloody nightmare with him in a confined space, I can tell you. Not looking forward to cosying up to him in the cabin of the boat on the way home.’
Basil gazed innocently from between Patrick’s legs and quietly emitted another cloud of sprout-scented fragrance. Closing his nostrils, Patrick patted Basil on the head. He’d rather have a flatulent Labrador any day than a Hugo smelling of roses.
Patrick ruffled Basil’s ears while Hugo sank the rest of his pint. ‘Good dog, Basil,’ he whispered.
Any satisfaction Patrick drew from Basil gassing Hugo on the way back to Petroc evaporated way faster than Basil’s farts. Talking of hot air, Hugo was speaking again.
‘I hear you’re being very community minded,’ he said.
Patrick’s hackles rose but that was exactly what Hugo wanted: to rile him. The guy was obviously keen on Maisie, whether that was for her, the pub or both.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, you’ve been helping out the islanders with their plan to stop me from buying Gull.’
Wow. Hugo didn’t mince his words today: he’d gone straight for Patrick’s jugular. ‘I’ve been lending a hand with some renovations at Hell Cove,’ he said calmly.
‘Popular chap, aren’t you? Funding the renovations, bastion of the rugby club, and now you’re obviously indispensable at the Driftwood. You really have got your feet under the table.’
Hugo was starting to really piss him off. ‘Look, mate. I know you want to take over Gull but you’re pushing your luck with comments like that.’
‘Apologies. I didn’t mean to offend.’ The pressure lifted on Patrick’s feet and Basil appeared by Hugo’s side, tail thumping the chair. Hugo pulled a face. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Basil. Can you please put a plug in it?’
Even though he could hardly breathe, Patrick could have hugged the dog.
‘But you did pay for the slates, didn’t you? I heard they were shipped over from a yard on the mainland, not from a mate at the rugby club. Ditto enough render to repaint the whole place and several timber joists that were initially rumoured to have been “found” washed up by a local fisherman?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Patrick with a smile that almost hurt his jaw.
‘No … I’m sure you can’t, but don’t you think you’re being rather … disingenuous with the Samsons and the rest of the community by not coming clean about the source of this stuff?’
‘Disingenuous. Wow. That’s a very big word, mate.’ Patrick raised an eyebrow while trying to avoid the noxious fumes emanating from Basil who wagged his tail and seemed particularly proud of his latest emission.
‘It’s a better word than deceitful, don’t you think?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m just a simple bloke, me.’
‘Hmm.’ Hugo winced and wafted his hand in front of his face. ‘Not as simple as you’d like us to believe, but that’s your affair. I’m only concerned about Maisie and the Samsons.’
Patrick took refuge in a swig of his Coke before replying, partly to gain a few seconds respite from the fumes but also to try and calm the ripples of panic stirring in his belly. He replaced his glass carefully on the table, focusing on the condensation cooling his sweaty palms. ‘Now why would that be?’ he asked.
‘I care about Maisie. Deeply care, and what’s more, I’ve known her a very long time. She’s had a rough few years and the pressure of running the pub is taking its toll, in my opinion. I can see that you may think you’re helping the islanders by joining in this community renovation scheme but I’m worried you’re only prolonging the agony by giving them hope.’
‘Community renovation scheme? That’s a grand description for a few mates getting together to help out their neighbours.’
‘Oh come on. I know it’s an organised plan. You don’t think that this sort of thing would have gone unnoticed, did you? Ordering building materials, transporting them around the isles … word travels swiftly round here.’
‘Even if there is a plan, and forgive me for being frank, Hugo,’ said Patrick smoothly while wanting to shove Hugo’s sprouts where the sun didn’t shine, ‘it’s actually none of your business. Mate.’
‘I can see I’m wasting my time. My interference was kindly meant.’ Hugo drained the last of his pint and stood up. ‘Basil, come on.’
Basil glanced up at his master with huge soulful eyes, and then promptly ran off towards the bar, trailing a cloud of sprouty odour in his wake.
‘Basil!’ Hugo ordered, but the dog was now sniffing the trouser legs of drinkers at the bar.
‘Bloody hell. What’s that stink?’
‘Was that you, Barry?’
‘Those who smelt it, dealt it, mate.’
‘Fuck,’ Hugo snapped. ‘That bloody dog never does anything he’s told.’
Patrick found it as hard to keep his laughter in as Basil did his wind.
Hugo wasn’t amused. His voice was butter smooth, but his eyes flashed fury. ‘You think this is all a bit of a laugh, don’t you? Flying in here, dabbling in our lives, playing the hero? And I know you think I’m only interested in Maisie so I can take control of the pub. You’re wrong. Very wrong. Maisie means a lot to me and I’ll tell you this. She – and the rest of the islanders – may think you’re a decent bloke, good for a laugh, here for the craic and ready to lend a hand where you can, but I know differently.’
Patrick kept his voice on an even keel but the fingers gripping his glass were not as steady and his pulse was thumping as fast as Basil’s tail.
‘And just what do you “know”, Hugo?’ he said, trying to sound bored.
‘I know you’re a liar and that you’re hiding something. I think you’ve told a pile of porkies to all of us and especially to Maisie. I think it’s to do with something – or someone – you’ve left behind in Melbourne. I think you’d do anything if you thought it would impress Maisie. Maybe you’re not as young, free and single as you make out,’ said Hugo.
Patrick smiled. ‘Wow. That’s a hell of a deduction, Sherlock.’
‘You may be sarcastic, you may laugh at me, but I promise you that if I do find out you’re lying to Maisie and intend to hurt her in any way, I will do something about it and you won’t like it one little bit.’
Bloody hell, Hugo had gone into full Liam Neeson mode. Patrick didn’t want to get into a fight but he wasn’t going to take this lying down.
‘Now, wait a minute, Hugo …’ he began.
Hugo’s voice descended to a whisper, which was obviously supposed to sound menacing. ‘And I don’t know exactly how long you really plan on staying, but I’ll be watching you very closely every single second that you remain on these islands.’ He leaned down close to Patrick’s face. ‘Very closely indeed.’
Patrick could smell his breath. Real ale, turkey dinner and toxic frustration. He wanted to shout back at Hugo, tell him how wrong he was … but Hugo had touched a raw nerve and come so close to the truth, in some ways – yet was so far away in others.
‘Oi! Hugo!’
Hugo turned his head towards the front of the bar where the landlord stood, grasping Basil’s collar and flapping his hand around like bunting in the wind. ‘Can you do something about your flipping dog? He’s going to clear out my entire pub at this rate.’
‘Coming,’ Hugo called. ‘I mean it,’ he shot back at Patrick before striding over to the landlord and grabbing Basil.
Hugo finally lugged Basil out of the door. From the street, the strains of carols melded with the tinkly Christmas pop tunes before the door closed behind Hugo and his sprouty hound.
Patrick returned to the bar. The landlord had opened the doors onto the terrace despite the cutting wind. He picked up his drink and took it outside where a couple of locals were having a ciggy, presumably to distract them from the eau-de-sprout room spray pervading the bar. They smirked at him, and he rolled his eyes in return, both making unspoken comments about Hugo.
Deep down, Patrick didn’t feel like laughing at Hugo. He didn’t feel like laughing at all. Guilt weighed him down worse than a lorry load of slates and rubble. Jesus, he had to do something – say something – soon … but that meant dragging a graveyard’s worth of rattling skeletons out of the cupboard and probably destroying his relationship with Maisie. A relationship barely two months old that he’d never sought and should never have encouraged. A relationship that to his amazement and terror was now making him rethink not just the next few months, but the rest of his life.