‘I don’t know what you’re standing there grinning about; you should be cracking on with this lot,’ Brenda said, pulling open the dishwasher tucked away under the bar. A gush of steam burst forth. It was full of glasses and Isabel set about emptying it.
͠
The pub doors closed at 4.30, reopening for the evening at 6 p.m. Isabel began clearing the glasses. ‘So you’re a Cockney, Brenda.’
‘Born and bred. I’ve two sons, in their thirties they are, still living in the East End.’
Isabel instantly pictured the Mitchell brothers from EastEnders.
‘What brought you to Wight then?’ They had plenty of pubs in the East End so far as Isabel knew.
‘The old man wanted a lifestyle change, so we bought the pub here. Six months down the line he left me for the twenty-one-year-old tart we took on behind the bar. Last I heard they’re back in the East End running a pub there. I don’t ask, and me boys don’t tell me.’ She shrugged. ‘I stayed on here, cos like I said, the locals looked after me. That was five years ago now.’
‘Oh.’ Isabel couldn’t think of much else to say to that.
‘What’s your story then Miss? What is it that brings you to Ryde other than putting off settling back down in Southampton?’
Isabel hesitated. ‘Well, it’s pretty much what I said before. I’ve been overseas for a year, and I’m just here for a bit of a break before I crack on with finding full–time work back in Southampton.’
Brenda paused mid table wipe and eyed her speculatively through mascara rimmed eyes. ‘In my experience, most people your age don’t come over here on their own for a bit of a break and especially not without booking somewhere to stay first.’
Isabel didn’t meet her gaze as she carried the glasses she’d collected over to the bar.
‘So come on then, they don’t call me Brenda the Bloodhound for nuffink. What’s your real story? I’m not buying this just here for a bit of a break malarkey.’
‘Do you really get called that?’
‘No, but I’m not letting it go.’
Isabel pursed her lips; she could see she wasn’t going to get out of this one, she might as well come clean. And so as she set about loading the dishwasher, she told Brenda about what had transpired at the end of her trip around New Zealand.
Brenda had stopped wiping the tables, so engrossed in listening to Isabel’s story. ‘Well, I can see how you’d feel obliged to try and keep your word to the old gal what with her dying on you and all.’ Her brow furrowed giving her a perplexed poodle look. ‘You know thinking about it, Constance ain't that common a name, and there was a Constance who was quite well known around these parts. Bit of a character she was, ran a herbal medicine shop down on the Esplanade for years. I fink it’s an art gallery or sumthink now. The last I ‘eard she’d gone into a retirement home. There’s three I know of here in Ryde; chances are you’ll find her in one of those if you go door knocking. She could well be the woman you’re looking for.’
Isabel felt a frisson of excitement. It felt like too much of a coincidence for her not to be Ginny’s Constance and she was still alive! She’d just been given her first clue on her journey to fulfilling her promise, and she’d gone no further than the first pub she’d stumbled across!
‘Mind with all them privacy laws now it might pay to pretend you’re long lost family or sumthink.’
Brenda was right, Isabel realised. ‘I could say Constance is my great aunt, and—’ Isabel thought for a sec and then had a brainwave. ‘She fell out with my nan; they lost touch and nan made me promise before she passed on that I’d find her and say she was sorry about everything that had happened.’
‘A half-truth.’
‘Exactly.’
Brenda winked at her; they were co-conspirators.
‘Right then, that’s sorted. Now it seems to me that you might need to earn a few pounds to keep yourself going while you’re ere. And seeing as I need a barmaid, you’ve got yourself some hours for as long as you need them. If you want them like?’
Isabel nodded so hard she jarred her neck. She didn’t quite believe her luck.
Brenda grinned, revealing teeth that reminded Isabel of a pony with a somewhat vicious streak she’d once ridden at a fair as a child. She rubbed her neck while Brenda got down to business.
‘The going rate’s five pounds fifty pence. I’d expect you on board from midday with a tea break from four–thirty to six, Friday to Sunday then it’s all hands on deck until eleven o’clock closing. Monday’s your day off and Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday I need you here for the evening shift only.’ She stalked over to the door behind the bar, her hand resting on the knob as she winced, ‘Me bloody bunions are killing me. So what do you say?’
Pub work would be marginally better for her figure than working at a fast food joint, and it meant she wouldn’t have to listen to her dad’s endless supply of leprechaun jokes for a bit, Isabel thought, She glanced down at her new boss’s black stilettos; she wasn’t surprised her feet were sore.
‘Well then?’ Brenda tapped her foot and then thought better of it.
‘Oh, sorry. It sounds brilliant, Brenda thank you.’ Wait until she told her mum she’d scored a job and she hadn’t had to do a thing to her hair!
‘Right, sorted. Come on then, I need to get off my feet for half an hour. I’ll show you where you can kip
