Two days had passed since she’d made her mind up to cross over to Wight to see if she could find Constance. It was crazy given her recent adventures on the other side of the world, but today she felt like she was heading off on an epic voyage into the unknown, not the hour-long ferry crossing to East Cowes. She had a plan of sorts; she would get the bus to Ryde and, well that was as far as she’d gotten. She’d fibbed to her mum when asked as to how she was off for money.
‘I’ve enough put by to find somewhere nice to stay for a few nights, Mum,’ she’d said, waiting to board the ferry. The truth of the matter was she had enough for her ferry fare, and one night’s accommodation so long as it was budget and she didn’t stretch to more than a bag of hot chips for her dinner. Isabel had never mastered the art of saving.
Her mum had been appeased, but her dad wasn’t fooled. He knew his daughter only too well, and he’d pressed a handful of crumpled twenty-pound notes into her hand when her mum was side-tracked having spotted one of the girls from work in the queue. She decided to forgive him for last night’s leprechaun joke as she gave him a big hug. He told her to watch his latest football injury, a sore rib before adding, ‘Mind how you go, eh love?’
‘I’ll only be gone a few days, Dad,’ she said, noticing he had a hole in the shoulder of his Saints shirt. It wasn’t surprising given how often he wore it. He was off down to the pub later to watch the game with the lads as he called them or, as her mum liked to refer to them, “the long in the tooth louts.
‘And when you’ve got this out of your system—’ Babs said, turning her attention back to her family.
‘I will find a job. I promise Mum!’
‘And promise me you’ll do something about that hair.’
͠
Isabel spotted the two-tone green double-decker bus that would take her to Ryde outside the Waitrose supermarket and clambered aboard. She ignored the young lad who was pushing past her to get off as he remarked loudly, ‘Oi mate, the bus matches her hair. She should get free fare for that.’ The driver glared at him muttering something about the youth of today, before taking Isabel’s money. He paused before handing her change and stared at her hair, ‘He’s right you know; it is the same colour.’
Obviously not right about the free fare, though, she thought, glaring at him. She snatched her ticket and marched down the aisle managing to smack an unsuspecting passenger with her backpack. ‘Ooh sorry,’ she mumbled, only just managing to sit down before the bus juddered off once more. Through the smudged window she could see the landscape unfurling exactly how she remembered it from childhood jaunts to the island with her parents.
The bus stopped and started its way through Whippingham, Wootton and the small village of Fishbourne where the car ferry from Portsmouth docked. As they passed through pretty wee Binstead with its post office that also served as the village’s general store, Isabel felt a frisson of excitement. Next stop, Ryde! Who knew what she would discover? She felt at that moment like she was starring in her very own mystery TV show and titles for the imaginary show whirled about her head. Isabel Stark Investigates or Chasing Constance perhaps. She decided she’d run with The Promise; it sounded edgy.
Ryde Pier was Isabel’s stop, and after the bus had nosed its way into the interchange, she hopped off, calling out a curt thank you to the driver. She was glad of her choice of jumper and jeans because the breeze off the water was bracing and the sky ominous. Isabel shivered despite her warm clothes, and swinging her pack onto her back she set off down the Esplanade. It had been years since she’d been here and she decided to have a wander about and get a feel for the place. She’d see what was about in the way of accommodation too and if nothing leaped out at her, she could always search for a room on her phone.
She turned left at the lights and began the gentle climb away from the seafront. A short distance ahead she saw a middle-aged couple blowing clouds of smoke into the air outside a lime washed pub. Above their head was a sign for the Rum Den. She was thirsty, and it looked as good a place as any for a pit stop. She pushed open the door and stepped inside surprised at how busy it was for a Saturday afternoon thanks to a pub quiz that was underway. A chap with a top hat stood on the small stage in the corner of the low beamed space. He was holding a microphone in one hand and reading a question off the card he held in his other.
Isabel’s gaze moved over to the bar as she sensed she was being stared at. A woman stood behind it, eyeing her curiously. She had jet black teased hair and tapped her long fingernails, inset with sparkly jewels on the expansive timber splayed out before her as she waited, Isabel presumed, for her to place her order. ‘Alright, Luv,’ came a decidedly Cockney voice as she raised a penciled in eyebrow. ‘What can I get you then?’
Isabel stopped hovering in the doorway, took a deep breath and smiled as she put her best foot forward. ‘Hi, um, I’ll just have a lemonade please.’ She
