Thank-you, Ryan and Chip. Any errors that remain in the text are all my own fuck-ups!
1
THE END OF a summer's day; Tuesday night and the place was heaving -- Tourists mostly. July sunshine had driven a lot of people to the coast and it seemed like all of them and more were crammed into the pub. Three of us worked the bar while two others scurried about clearing glasses, plates, cutlery, and all manner of detritus from tables that were in great demand. During summer most of the customers preferred to be outside where a cordon of chrome posts and dark blue rope was set aside on the pavement. Wooden tables, chairs, and benches had been set up so patrons could drink, eat, chat, and smoke. Despite the rush on my side, busy as I was, I saw her and recognised her. Two years and three hundred miles made no odds.
Miss McCready, as I'd known her then, was the crush of the school: at least the male half all fancied her, but there were probably a few females who'd wanted the Celtic princess too. The exception may have been Kevin Wardle, who now headlines as Glorious GloriaGoGo in cabaret clubs in Gran Canaria, so hardly counts.
I pulled pints, poured gin, and served cider but kept Miss McCready in sight. If she recognised me I'd speak to her, I thought. If she didn't connect me to the school - and let's face it why would she, one dickhead student out of how many? --
If
she recognised me I'd speak to her, but I lacked the nerve to approach her outright. What if she just stared at me blankly and didn't recall me at all? I cringed inwardly at the thought.
As a bulbous woman, complexion florid from too much sun and alcohol, took her half of lager and pint of Bishop's Finger, Miss McCready stepped neatly into her place. Three of us working behind the bar, but somehow fate had decreed I was to serve her. She opened her mouth to speak and then paused. I saw her eyes narrow with the internal struggle -- She'd recognised me but couldn't place me. Then I saw the penny drop.
"My God!" she blurted. "Hang on... don't tell me—"
The Welsh vowels sounded strange; I remembered how exotic her accent had seemed to us schoolboys in the north of England when Miss McCready taught us grammar. She closed her eyes and tilted her head to one side; an endearing gesture but, as smitten as I had been -- and still was if truth be told -- the King's Arms was too busy for her to be recollecting past students. A large man in a ridiculous shirt shuffled impatiently. I nodded at the gent and he swooped on the opportunity.
"—Victor... Victor... Bowring!" Miss McCready beamed when the impatient man, having paid - no tip - for his drink moved away from the bar.
Surprised she'd placed me I nodded, my face colouring as I blushed.
She laughed, cheeks dimpling while her eyes sparkled. Speechless I stared at her, caught in a quick memory of classroom noises and school smells. She's so sexy, sexy
and
beautiful, I thought; more lovely than I remembered. Of course I'd never dare to articulate those thoughts. Not to her face.
"Soda and lime," Miss McCready said, snapping my reverie, I noticed a hint of a teasing expression on her face. She was aware of my discomfort. "Something refreshing; nothing alcoholic, it's been a hard afternoon browsing in shops." I turned to the task in hand. "How come you're working here?" Miss McCready added.
"I'm in uni down here. I'm doing this for a little cash."
"And I suppose it keeps you out of trouble." Again I saw the mischief sparkle while a grin twitched the corners of her mouth. The woman knew I'd never been one of the wild kids in school.
"Sixty-five pence, please, Miss McCready" I said, placing her drink on the bar top.
She laughed again. "Stop with the 'Miss McCready'. ... Please. It makes me sound so old. You're a grown-up now. We're out of school. Call me Rosalinde... or Roz, I don't mind." She handed me three coins and sipped at her drink. The ice tinkled against the side of the glass while Rosalinde regarded me over the rim. "What time do you finish?" she asked.
"I finish at ten," I replied. Then I saw Chris, the impatient manager, looking across at me. My stomach slid with concern; Rosalinde was holding up traffic.
"I'll wait for you outside at ten? We could catch up?"
I nodded agreement, distracted by Chris's stare. It wasn't until Rosalinde moved from the bar and walked outside that I realised fully what she'd said.
"Yes, sir?" I said to the young guy in a pink t-shirt who replaced Rosalinde in front of me. I took a glance at the clock while pulling his three pint order. The lovely Miss Rosalinde McCready was going to wait for me after work! There was an hour-and-a-half until ten o'clock. Ninety minutes of my shift remained. I felt a slide of anticipation and a pit of fear in my stomach.
"Message for you," said Paul a few minutes later. The pot man leered at me through his grey beard. "Bird outside said she'd see you at ten." He jerked his face towards the door. "Bit of a looker..." He mimed an hour-glass figure with his hands. "Pretty face. Big..." he paused, "...smile. Nice jugs too," he added crudely and smirked. "If you can't handle it, son, pass her my way." Paul saw Chris looking and scurried off chuckling at his own wit.
The knot in my stomach tightened. Paul was right. I could never handle a woman like Rosalinde.
2
Yeah... I like it when the girls stop by in the summer.
Do you remember, do you remember... when we met... that summer?
I LEFT THE PUB a little late at just gone five-past the hour. The timid side of me, which always had the greater influence and preferred the soft option, entertained the notion that Rosalinde would have another offer and wouldn't be waiting. After all, why would she want to spend any time with a shy kid ten years her junior? Especially on a summer's evening in Brighton.
But there she was, waiting. I felt the jolt when I saw her standing prettily in front of the chalk-board menu that showed today's lunch specials - the oddly named Moo Pie had been popular. When she saw me, Rosalinde smiled - a genuine smile of pleasure that surprised me with its warmth. In the few seconds between seeing her and speaking I drank in Rosalinde's loveliness. From the crown of her jet black hair - which she wore longer than the bobbed style I recalled - to the tips of her painted toenails that peeped from the open-toed sandals she wore, every inch of her was gorgeous. I suddenly understood the instinct that made a dog howl all night. She'd changed clothes; the simple, straight, pale blue dress that caressed her thighs couldn't belie Rosalinde's ripe body. I wanted her but knew I wouldn't dare speak my mind.
"I thought you'd stood me up," Rosalinde grinned. "And on our first date too! Oh, come on, don't take me too seriously" she continued, when she saw the expression on my face and the blush burn scarlet. "I'm only teasing."
I cursed inwardly at my typical inability to string a coherent sentence together when faced with a pretty girl. Although... girl? This was no girl. No wonder I blushed while I stammered a self-conscious hello.
