someone else perhaps with a story to tell.
'All right,' she said, because every evening he told her he was going into the bar, and every evening she replied that it would be all right.
'Are we expecting any visitors tonight?'
'I don't think so. Someone might turn up, 1 suppose.'
'I'll leave that to you, then. If no one checks in, would you mind coming in and helping out behind the bar?'
'No, Nick.'
Amy Colwyn was one of the many leftover victims of the massacre that had taken place in Bulverton the previous summer. She had not been in physical danger herself, but her life had been blighted none the less by the event. The horror of that day lived on. Business at the hotel was usually slow, allowing her too much time to dwell on what had happened to others, and what might have been her life now if the disaster had not happened.
Nick Surtees, another indirect victim of the shootings, was one of the matters of regret on which she frequently dwelt. There had been a time, not so long ago, when it would never have occurred to her that she would see Nick again, let alone be working, living and sleeping with him. Yet that had happened and they were all still happening, and she wasn't entirely sure how. Nick and she had found comfort in each other, and were still there holding on when that need had begun to retreat.
Bulverton was situated on the hilly edge of the Pevensey Levels between Bexhill and Eastbourne. Fifty years ago it had been a holiday resort, the type of seaside town traditionally preferred by families with young children. With the conning of cheap foreign holidays Bulverton had gone into rapid decline as a resort; most of the seafront hotels had been converted into blocks of flats or retirement homes. For the last two decades Bulverton had in a manner of speaking turned its back on the sea, and had concentrated on promoting the charms of its Old Town. This was a small network of attractive terraces and gardens, covering part of the river valley and one of the hills rising up beside it. If Bulverton could be said to have an industry now, it was in the shops that sold antiques or secondhand books, in a number of nursing homes in the high part of the town known as the Ridge, and in providing homes for the people who commuted to their jobs in Brighton, Eastbourne or Tunbridge Wells.
lt was because of Nick that the White Dragon could not seem to make up its mind whether to be a pub or a seaside hotel. Keeping it as a pub suited him, because he spent most evenings in the saloon bar downstairs, drinking with a few of his pals.
The marginally more profitable hotel side, the bed and breakfast and the occasional halfboard for a weekend, was Amy's domain, mainly through Nick's own lack of interest. in the days and weeks immediately after the shootings, when Bulverton was crammed with journalists and film crews, the hotel had been full. The work had offered itself as a welcome distraction from her own preoccupations, and she had thrown herself into it. Business had inevitably declined as the first shock of the catastrophe began to fade, and media interest receded; by the middle of July it was back to what Amy now knew was its normal level. So long as there were never too many people arriving at the same time, Amy, working alone, could comfortably keep the rooms clean and have the beds made up, provision the tiny restaurant with a reasonable choice of meals, and even keep the financial records up to date.
None of these jobs interested Nick.
Amy often thought back to the times when she and some of her old schoolfriends would move across to Eastbourne every summer, from July to September, when there were always two or three major conferences taking place: trade unions, political parties, business or professional organizations. lt had never been hard finding shortterm but comparatively well paid Jobs: chambermaids and bar staff were always needed in the big hotels. It had been a laugh as well, lots of young men on the loose, all with money to bum and no one taking too much notice of what was going on. She had met Jase then, also working the conference business, but as a wine waiter. That had been another laugh, because Jase, who was a roofer in real life, knew less about wine than did even Amy.
What Amy hadn't told Nick about was the feeling of letdown that had been growing in her all that day. lt concerned a reservation made two weeks before from America. Amy had not mentioned the booking to Nick at the time lt was made, and she had quietly slipped the deposit for the room into the bank. A woman called Teresa Simons had written to ask if she might reserve a room with en suite bathroom on an openended basis; she said she was making a long visit to Bulverton, and needed a base.
A pleasant daydream then swept over Amy, a vision of having one of the rooms permanently occupied throughout the slow months of late winter: it was a potentially lucrative booking, with meals and bar takings all boosted by the woman's stay. lt was absurd to think that one semipermanent guest could transform their fortunes, but for some reason Amy had felt convinced that she could. She faxed back promptly, confirming the room, and had even suggested a modest discount for a long stay. The booking and the deposit turned up not long afterwards. Nick still didn't know about it.
Today was the day Mrs Simons was due to arrive. According to her letter she would be flying into Gatwick in the morning, and Amy had been half expecting her to turn up from midmorning onwards. By lunchtime there was no sign of her, and no message either. As the day crept by she still didn't arrive and Amy had been feeling a steadily growing sense of mishap. lt was out of proportion to its importance there were all sorts of reasons why the plane might have been delayed, and anyway why should the woman come straight to the hotel after getting offa plane? and Amy realized this.
It made her aware yet again how much of herself she was pouring into this unprormsing business. She had wanted to surprise Nick with Mrs Simons' arrival, tell him about what she assumed would be a welcome source of income for some
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time. lt might even, she had brifly hoped, break him out of his seemingly permanent round of worry and silent brooding.
She knew that they were both in a cycle of misery, a long period of grief They weren't alone in Bulverton: most of the people in the town were still grieving.
lt was what Reverend Oliphant had said at the town's memorial service the week after the disaster that one occasion in her life when Amy had wanted to go to church, and did.
Kenneth Oliphant had said: grief is an experience like happiness or success or discovery or love. Grief has a shape and a duration, and it gives and takes away. Grief has to be endured, surrendered to, so that an
