‘That’ll be one pound sixty ta, and it’s Rod Stewart,’ the publican said sliding Isabel’s glass of lemonade toward her a tick later. She leaned across the bar and whispered conspiratorially. ‘Rocking Rod rocks my world. I almost considered dying my hair blonde for him back in my day.’ Her eyes flicked over Isabel’s hair. ‘What colour do you call that then?’
‘Erm, green.’ Isabel fished the money from her purse wondering why on earth the woman was on about Rod Stewart.
‘You, young ones always think you’re the first to do everything; you know David Bowie was doing his orange before you were even a twinkle in your father’s eye.’
‘I’ll repeat that,’ the Quizmaster said into his microphone distracting them both. ‘Which famous singer, was an apprentice for the then third division Brentford Town Football Club?’
Isabel twigged, the answer was Rod Stewart. The publican wasn’t a complete nutter then. ‘My dad’s a big Rod fan, although Bruce Springsteen is his all-time favourite. I’m more into classical music. I love opera.’ She didn’t often confide that she loved the genre, and she certainly never told anyone about her dream of seeing Andrea Bocelli sing at Teatro del Silenzio near the tenor’s home in Tuscany. It all seemed a little too highfalutin for an unemployed twenty-six-year-old from Southampton. There was something about this woman’s forthright manner that invited her to share though.
‘We don’t have much call for opera and the like around these parts.’
‘Ooh, ooh I know this one, I know it.’ A woman’s voice carried across the array of glasses on her table closest to the stage. Isabel glanced over to see her jiggling about in her seat.
‘That’s one of the regulars, Linda, and she’ll wet herself if she’s not careful. I’m Brenda by the way.’
‘Isabel,’ she replied with a smile before taking a sip of her drink. It was cold and sweet, just what she needed.
‘Where are you from then, Isabel who loves opera, and what brings you to Wight?’
‘I’m from Southampton, but I’ve just returned from a working holiday in Australia and, well I just fancied a few days break on the island before I settle back down.’
‘And what did you do for a crust in Australia then?’
‘Bar work mostly,’ Isabel replied, putting her glass down.
‘So, you’re in between jobs at the mo?’
‘I suppose so, yes.’ Applying for the McDonald’s job had been put on hold, for a few days at least.
‘And where are you planning on staying while you’re here?’ Brenda eyed Isabel’s pack.
‘I haven’t sorted anywhere out yet; I thought I’d have a wander around and see what was about.’
‘There’s a room you can doss down in tonight upstairs if you like. Me lodger’s away.’
‘Oh.’ Isabel was taken aback.
‘I won’t charge you board neither if you give us a hand behind the bar. I’ve been run off me feet since Patsy up and left.’
Isabel necked her lemonade, startled by what had just transpired—a few hours work in exchange for a night’s lodging—she would not look a gift horse, so to speak, in the mouth.
‘That would be great, thank you.’
Brenda waved her thanks aside. ‘Right then. Let’s see if you can handle this lot when they break in ten minutes. You can stick your pack out the back for now.’ She lifted the flip top of the bar and beckoned her over to the other side.
͠
The quizmaster put down his microphone, having just told his contestants he was taking a short break. This news was followed by a mass scraping of chairs as a tidal wave of thirsty punters surged toward the bar. Isabel felt like her feet were frozen in the path of the migrating wildebeest on a prairie plain. Bloody–hell talk about being thrown in at the deep end, she thought as the patch of skin that had flared up on her neck began to burn with intensity. Come on Isabel you can do this. She took a deep breath and followed Brenda’s cue, watching the maestro at work before launching into action herself.
It was like getting back on a bicycle after she’d fallen off it. The drinks were slightly different, and it was pounds, not Australian dollars that was all. ‘Hi everyone. If you could just bear with me while I find my way around this bar I’ll get to you all in just a tick.’ She smiled at a man with a paunch pushing his glass toward her. ‘Right then sir, what can I get you?’
‘Half a pint of bitter love. Where’ve you popped up from then?’
‘I called in for a drink and when Brenda heard I’d worked in pubs before she asked me to give her a hand,’ Isabel said, going on to give him an abbreviated backstory of having just come home from overseas and fancying a few days on Wight.
‘I didn’t think she was a caulkhead, not with that hair,’ a woman who looked to be a hardy seafaring type said, eyeing her suspiciously over the top of her lemon and bitters.
The word she’d used, caulkhead, tickled at the back of Isabel’s mind, but she couldn’t remember what it meant.
‘It means Islander. That sort of thing matters to this lot, but if they like you, they’ll treat you like family,’ Brenda whispered out the corner of her mouth spying Isabel’s puzzled expression as she reached for a packet of pork scratchings. ‘I’m a Cockney, and they never let me forget it, but when my husband left they rallied around me, so I stayed.’
The last of the customers carried her gin and tonic back to the table to join her team who were waiting with their pencils poised, for the quizmaster to launch into his spiel. The topic was sports. She’d be no help to them,
