At the Boar’s Head, it was Caroline’s job to empty ashtrays, clear glasses and wipe tables. Irrespective of her rather odd appearance: the penetrating stare, the slight adolescent frame bulked out in bewildering layers despite the unrelenting heatwave, Liz and Ian Fry liked having her around. Kicked off by a suggestion of Dean’s, it wasn’t long before she was trusted to serve ploughman’s lunches and butterfly-chicken to the hot-faced cyclists and hikers who followed the six-mile footpath from Slinghill.
It was lunchtime and the bar was heaving. Another fine day had attracted a steady stream of people. Thrilled to have yet another opportunity to spend time with Dean, Caroline stood at the bar to watch him. Pink from the shower, his damp curls stamped to the back of his neck, he reached for a shot of Jack Daniel’s from the bank of optics and inadvertently furnished her with a glimpse of his toned midriff. Dora said she shouldn’t be working here, that it was an unsuitable environment for a budding young woman, but Caroline knew her great-aunt wouldn’t object too loudly about the drink-sticky floor and tables ringed from years of glasses because with Joanna learning the piano at Mrs Hooper’s and Caroline here, Dora was free to please herself.
‘I’ve been thinking.’ Dean, stretching up for a second shot, gave Caroline a wink that made her insides cartwheel. ‘You wanna cut a fringe in that hair of yours. Trust me, it would really suit you.’
His unexpected interest in her appearance was nearly enough for Caroline to drop the pile of plates she was carrying.
‘Whoa.’ Dean gulped back his drink. ‘You can’t manage all them.’ And darting forward, he helped to transfer the dirty crockery into the kitchen.
‘I like that song on the jukebox,’ she said, loading the dishwasher the way Ian showed her. ‘What is it?’
‘“Hey You”. Pink Floyd.’ Dean passed her a fork she’d missed and smiled; handsome and casual, he ran a suntanned hand over his head. ‘Want me to put it on again?’
Nodding vigorously enough to make her Alice band shift, she saw him lean into the bar to feed coins into the jukebox.
‘Me dad’s saw ’em live at Earl’s Court.’ His voice competing with Dave Gilmour’s guitar and a melody she was coming to know. ‘Bloody awesome.’
A holler went up from a ring of drinkers. Dean, on to it, dried his hands on the seat of his Levi’s and swung into action.
‘Right, you’ve asked for it, Danny Matthews.’ Caroline heard his call before the kitchen door swung shut.
Reluctant to miss any action she quickly switched on the dishwasher, but something by the sink caught her eye. A gold ring with a bold blue stone that had been left behind in the soap dish. She picked it up. Decided to take it. And with a sharp look over her shoulder, slipped it into the pocket of her dungarees before heading back into the bar.
‘Watch this.’ Dean winked again as he retrieved something from beneath the till. Pointing the lens and pressing the button, there was a whirring sound and the machine spat out a small square of shiny black card. ‘Magic.’ Dean projected the word above the music and the roar of protest from the table of rabble-rousers. And it was, because right before her eyes, it revealed the scene she’d just witnessed.
A boisterous punter took a swing at Dean, but a little worse for wear, he fell forward on all fours. Ian leapt from behind the bar like a WWF wrestler and picked the bloke up by the scruff of the neck. ‘Any more of that,’ he shook him, pushed him down on a chair, ‘and you’re barred.’ Then stepping back, he crossed his muscled arms to watch his son snap out Polaroids. ‘Acting the goat, you know the rules,’ he informed the room. ‘And they’re Liz’s rules ,’ he stressed. ‘Any rowdy behaviour and we take a picture, and you’re on the Wall of Shame. For eternity.’
‘There you go.’ Dean returned the camera to its home on a fresh stash of tea towels and handed Caroline a pile of Polaroids. ‘Find room for them with that lot.’ He jabbed a thumb at a wall plastered with photographs of drinkers captured mid-slurp, mid-stagger, many of them faded to a strange sunset pink at their edges.
‘Is that Drake’s Pike?’ Caroline pointed to ones of Witchwood in the snow.
‘Yeah. The winter before we came.’ Dean was close enough for her to feel the heat of his skin through his clothes. To see the unusual flecks of green in his hazel eyes. ‘Awesome to think that, ain’t it? Snowed in for weeks, apparently. The lake was frozen solid, people was skating on it.’
‘Lethal. A youngster from Cinderglade skidded under the ice. They never found him.’ Ian dropped the chilling nugget into their conversation.
‘Oi, take that damn thing down,’ a red-faced drinker shouted.
‘No way.’ Ian rubbed his broad hands together. ‘These are for posterity. You shouldn’t piss about if you don’t want your picture up here.’
‘Yeah, Danny,’ Dean joined in. ‘It’s about time you lot learnt to behave.’
‘Have you finished with this one for the day, Liz?’ Ian asked his wife when the door at the side of the bar opened.
‘I have – Carrie’s worked hard, haven’t you, love?’ Liz hugged Caroline. ‘You paid her?’ She looked at Ian, who gave the thumbs up. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot. I’ve got something else for you.’ And she reached into the kitchen. ‘Here,’ she said, and passed her a carton of hen’s eggs. ‘Get that auntie of yours to cook them up for breakfast.’
‘No,’ Caroline said. ‘Dora’s got enough – I’m going to give these to Mrs Hooper. She hasn’t got anything.’
Liz stole a sidelong glance at her husband, smiled her big, warm smile that made the corners of her eyes crease up. ‘What a sensitive young lady you are,’ she congratulated her. ‘That’s a lovely thing to do.’