Page 24 of Little Wing
‘OK – well, bye now then.’ Dougie listened to the solid pause. ‘Dad?’
‘Aye.’ Gordon sent another pause down the line to his son. ‘You be safe on your way, laddie.’
‘I will.’
‘Almost home,’ said his father.
The worse the weather, the more crowded the pub became. Beer and whisky and bravura and camaraderie. Hikers from Sweden and Canada had the piss gently taken, regulars swore gamely at each other and matched the landlady at her chirpy insults, and Dougie was treated as one of their own. His jeans were drying against his skin, a sensation odd but not unpleasant. He got drunk. They all got drunk. He wasn’t sure how many drinks he paid for nor how many were bought for him. He thought he’d ordered food. He spoke to a girl called Inge from Sweden with mesmerizing blue eyes and hair so white and silken that he was compelled to stroke it. He told the Scots he was from Harris, he told the foreigners he lived in London. He told Inge that she was beautiful and he wanted to photograph her. He told the craggy man he’d first met that he wanted to take his portrait. He told them he photographed wheelbarrows for a living.
That he later found his way back to the guesthouse was nothing short of miraculous. He had no idea what the time was or how much he’d drunk but his hangover was so bad the following day that he spent another night in Fort William. But the pub today was almost empty. The storm had passed and folk had hiked on or gone back to work. He went to sleep at 7.30 and left Scotland at first light the next morning.
When Dougie finally arrived back at his flat in Camden, it was as if he hadn’t been there for months. Stuffing clothes in for a wash and bread into the toaster, he sat on the sofa, looked around him and it felt now like he’d never left. All those drum pumps in Carlisle and the ropes in Derbyshire and whatever it was he had photographed in Peterborough. And the joyless waiter outside Lockerbie and the beautiful hiker in the pub, the tiny bed in Fort William and the howl of the wind and the lash of the rain and his new best friends slapping his back as drinks were downed – it was all so implausible it became dreamlike and forgotten.
Nell
Nell had sat in her car, stationary, for a good ten minutes before reluctantly turning on the ignition. Now she was halfway there and reminding herself, out loud, that she was doing this to shut Debbie up. To shut everyone up. Nell really couldn’t think of anything worse than a blind date – nor anything she’d less like to do on her day off – but Debbie had announced it with aplomb in the café as if it was her greatest achievement to date. Guess what everyone, she’d said. I’ve got Nell a date, he’s called Tobes and apparently he’s gorgeous and he’s seen Nell’s picture and he’s dying to meet her.
Rachel grinned from ear to ear and saidbridesmaidto Nell in her wavery whisper.
One of the mums called over that she met her husband that way.
AJ asked if Nell would be having sex.
Danny told AJ to shut up because she was going to marryhim, aren’t you, Nell.
Alex asked if it meant Nell had to pretend that she was blind.
Libby needed to know what Nell would wear.
Danny said not your grey sweatshirt, it’s too grey.
Sanjay said not the trousers with the big pockets on the side, they’re horrible.
Libby said wear a red skirt, it’s important.
One of the builders in the queue said you want to be careful, love. Make sure someone knows exactly where you’ll be.
Debbie said Jesus – it’s a date with a nice guy called Tobes, not some random axe murderer.
Nell said what sort of a name is Tobes anyway?
And everyone looked at Nell. Everyone. Staff and customers alike. Everyone threw their exasperation at her.
All right all right! Bloody hell! I’ll go!
Nell didn’t have a red skirt, nor did she have any inclination to buy one. She stuck her head out of the kitchen window and detected only a slight breeze; put on jeans and long brown boots and two gauzy tops which she hoped was what layering was meant to look like. She added a necklace then took it off. Slung a wide belt around her hips and thought not bad. A little make-up and a lot of nerves.
Why am I doing this?
Because everyone’s in the background rooting for you.
And as Debbie said, it’s only for lunch – not for ever.
Bury St Edmunds – an excellent pub and a perfectly nice-looking Tobes. Within minutes though, Nell was quietly wondering how she could best describe him to everyone desperate for details on Monday.
Really sweet guy – just not my type.
Nice bloke – but not for me.
