It’s not late, but Ted the boatman is already singing melancholy sea shanties. Alison smiles indulgently. Tourists lap up this kind of thing. They watch the sunset glow golden over the sea, congratulate themselves on their good fortune, treat themselves to another double, then retire to their lovely holiday homes well lubricated and moist-eyed.
Alison sends over a free pint and blows Ted a kiss. He is one of her best customers. Everyone knows Ted, one of several boatmen who spend their days tootling between Tresco, Bryher and St Mary’s. He’s pretty much a fixture in the pub. He does a little crab fishing on the side and the occasional private-hire puffin spotting, not that many get to see the little sods because they’re barely bigger than the Scilly bees.
He looks the part of the salty sailor does Ted – nut-brown weather-beaten face, bushy beard flecked with silver, a classic fisherman’s cap which now sits on the table in front of him, 100and a big navy jumper which has seen better days. As soon as he arrives he hangs his battered waterproof on the peg near the door, considerate of the Old Ship’s floor. He might be the Ancient Mariner, although visitors are often surprised to learn he’s barely fifty. His son, Teddy, shares his father’s name, a practice still common in these parts. The lad was born on St Mary’s and Ted had hoped he’d follow him onto the boats, as he’d followed his own father into the profession, but that was not to be. It was a huge disappointment.
Alison employs a brand of professional flirting with Ted, the same as she does with most of her regulars and pretty much all the visitors. The boatman’s wife is rarely seen – a sour-faced wisp of a woman who moans about the weather and the cost of living. When she does grace the pub with a rare visit, she bleats about how much she misses her son, who left the island as soon as he could, the same as most of the other young people. She’s a total wet weekend. No wonder her bloke spends most evenings over here.
Kit and Hannah arrive looking sun-kissed and happy and Alison wonders what he does for a living that allows him the freedom to come over every few weeks. How the other half live.
Leaving the assistant barman serving, Alison starts collecting glasses. She likes to keep an eye on things, checking visitors and workers alike for any signs of potential trouble. Tonight, all seems calm.
Nestled into a corner, John and Mary-Jane look totally loved up as usual. They always seem besotted with each other, yet they’ve been together since their teens apparently. Alison can’t understand why they’re not bored as all buggery by now. Her two marriages floundered around the three-year itch. 101
On her way back to the bar, Alison stops at Table 3 to chat to Hannah and Kit. They discuss the gallery party and who might be in the pub later, then Kit looks at his phone. He shows them the picture Beatrice Wallace’s goddaughter, Charlotte, has just sent him – her posing in a tiny bikini on a beach the other side of the world. You do not need to be a psychologist to identify the look of jealousy that crosses the barmaid’s face. Trouble in paradise, thinks Alison.
She’s glad she doesn’t have to deal with all that relationship nonsense any longer. But she wonders what it might be like to have someone close, someone to confide in; someone to warm your feet on through the cold nights. It’s not that Alison is lonely – not at all, she’s always surrounded by customers – but no one else is responsible for running the place and sometimes that weighs upon her. The only people she can talk to as equals are the other managers: Bobby, Angie from the shop, Fiona from the gallery. The Family are a different kettle of fish. Everyone’s a little on edge when they pop down to the pub to do a walkabout with the serfs. Alison could never admit her worries to them – it’s a cheery smile and the forced-jolly reply of ‘smashing’ if they ever ask her (or anyone else) how things are going. The Family aren’t really asking about the financial state of affairs anyway; they have accountants to keep tabs on that.
By the time she swings back to the bar, Kit has his hand on Sam’s arm, saying, ‘Cool it, mate. It’s fine. He didn’t mean anything by it,’ and Sam is glaring at Vlad, who’s backing away with both hands up, like he’s surrendering.
Sam is already well on the way to belligerent. Alison recently had to bar him for a week after he started a pushing-and-shoving 102row with one of the builders sorting out the roof on the community centre, and the way he’s been at the ale for the last few days, she guesses she’ll have to do it again soon enough. He’s obviously been fighting again – there’s a gash on his cheekbone and bruises on his hands. Thankfully Kit manages to sit him down, and the altercation fizzles out. Hannah has enough sense to keep well out of it.
Alison serves Kit, wondering if Dame Beatrice Wallace, as she thinks of her, will grace them with her presence this evening. While Kit is now a regular, the mother didn’t return for her usual August break. Alison assumes her absence was due to the husband dropping dead back in June – Henry Wallace, good tipper – thankfully not while he was on the island. Always a logistical pain, that.
Mother and son are not staying together this time. Beatrice is currently rattling round Falcon alone by all accounts, while Kit is renting one of the smaller cottages, Guillemot, and after she finishes her shifts, Hannah spends her nights over there with him.
The good news is that Beatrice is keeping the timeshare weeks on Falcon, much to Bobby’s relief – hard to let something that size on a regular basis.
Alison has never seen Bobby so anxious as he’s been over the last couple of months. He got legless last week and confessed as much. But that’s what a few months on the wagon can do for you – it’s bloody dangerous when you start up again, and yes, Alison does have experience of that. Best to keep drinking, as far as she’s concerned.
As Alison is unloading the glasswasher, Thor from the shop pops in asking for Hannah. Stupid bloody name. Why he wants 103to be called that rather than his given name of Alec, she’s no idea.
Alison looks round to check, but Hannah must be in the loo or outside having a cigarette. ‘It’s her night off,’ she says. That’s the truth in fact, if not in spirit. But Thor is a pest. Sometimes he’ll spend an entire lunchtime sitting watching Hannah like a hawk, drinking a single beer and picking at a bowl of chips. He’s a total buzzkill. She wonders if the lad ever gets outside in daylight hours, he’s so pale. Hannah is also coming to the end of her tether with Thor’s moping, which has intensified since Kit appeared on the scene. The lad never seems to sit with anybody, just broods by himself, sending puppy-dog glances towards the bar. Alison feels sorry for him.
‘I’ll tell her you were asking after her,’ she smiles. ‘And take my advice, yeah? Forget Hannah. You get yourself a nice girlfriend.’
She gets on with serving a group of timeshare guests who arrive from the pavilion end – the clever ones who come after the school holidays when the beaches are less screechy and the prices marginally less shocking – and Thor traipses out with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
‘Alison! Alison, my good woman!’ Colonel Blimp from Gannet comes up from Table 5 and orders a round of drinks for his chums and a mineral water for himself. Sobriety is one of the Colonel’s several affectations which some mistake for a personality. His real name, obviously, isn’t Blimp.
The Colonel leans against the bar, eyeing Hannah who’s just come in from having a cigarette in the garden. ‘Who wears short shorts!’ he laughs. ‘The full gravy, that girl!’ He winks. ‘The full gravy!’
Talking like he’s living in the twenties is another of his foibles. 104So polite, so privileged, so handsy with Hannah and the other barmaids who have to wiggle out of his grasp after last orders. Wisely he never tries it on with Alison.
‘The quiz on tomorrow?’ he enquires.
‘Yes,’ says Alison. You entering?’
‘Of course!’ he booms. ‘In with a good chance, I reckon.’
Alison smiles. His team won’t win. The kitchen workers in Quiz Team Aguilera always take it.
As she serves the drinks, she notices that the housekeeping harpies are whispering together on Table 2 – the two newish lads and their supervisor, Molly, who is old enough to know better. They seem to be pulling Thor apart, and while the lad almost asks for it, Alison intervenes.
‘Hubble bubble, ladies and gentlemen,’ she calls over to them. ‘What will it be – eye of newt?’
All three scowl at her. Let them. This is her establishment, and she can say what she likes – well, to the workers, if not the guests.
An hour or so later and Alison is knackered; she’s tempted when Hannah comes up to order another round and says, ‘If you want to knock off early I can give you a hand.’ It’s a kind offer.
‘No, you’re fine,’ replies Alison. ‘You have your young man here. Enjoy him!’
What would she do with a night off anyway? You have to occupy yourself on the islands, which takes a degree of energy, and Alison is depleted on that front. Late nights and too many doubles. She hasn’t even got a good book to look forward to.
She promises herself she’ll go for a walk tomorrow, get back on the fitness kick, but she’s also self-aware enough to guess 105that might not happen. Plus, tomorrow night is her actual night off and her friend Kelly is busy, so, for want of something better to do, no doubt Alison will end up back here, sitting where Sam sits now – a busman’s holiday. It’s either that or Cinema Night at the community centre, another Tom Cruise Mission: Impossible if she recalls correctly, and she isn’t a fan of anyone who smiles that much.
Alison reaches for another vodka on the rocks, adding a slice of lemon for the vitamin C.
There seems to be a slump when Ted stops singing. People’s thoughts turn inwards.
After Alison has rung the bell for last orders, the boatman will return to Bryher, but he will not go straight to bed. He cannot stand the miasma of disappointment radiating from the back of his wife’s brushed cotton nightdress. Instead, he will pour himself a large whiskey and turn on his computer in the back room. Even though he will be up again at dawn to check the weather reports, he will spend an hour or more staring at the screen, hungry to find some solace within the dark recesses of the internet, or watch one of the old films with his favourite actor, Jean-Claude Van Damme.
You have to make your own entertainment here.