The Undomestic Goddess
Page 70

“So you’re not really a gardener!”
“I am really a gardener.” He straightens a bar mat. “This is … business.”
There’s the same tone in his voice as before. As though I’ve trodden on something sensitive. I look away—and my attention is caught by a picture on the wall of a fair-haired middle-aged man. He has Nathaniel’s strong jaw and blue eyes, and the same crinkles around his eyes as he smiles.
“That’s your dad?” I say cautiously. “He looks wonderful.”
“He was the life and soul.” Nathaniel’s eyes soften. “Everyone here, they all loved him.” He takes a deep slug of beer, then puts his glass down. “But listen. We don’t have to stay. If you’d rather go somewhere else, somewhere nicer …”
The pub is bustling. Some song I vaguely recognize as a current hit is playing above the noise of talk and laughter. A group of regulars are greeting each other by the bar with cheerful insults. A pair of elderly American tourists in Stratford T-shirts are being advised on local beers by a barman with red hair and twinkling eyes. Across the room a darts game has started. I can’t remember the last time I was in such an easy, friendly atmosphere.
“Let’s stay. And I’ll help!” I slip off my bar stool and head behind the bar.
“Have you ever pulled a pint before?” Nathaniel follows me.
“No.” I pick up a glass and put it under one of the beer taps. “But I can learn.”
Nathaniel comes round the bar. “You tilt the glass like this.… Now pull.”
I pull the tap, and a burst of foam splutters out. “Damn!”
“Slowly …” He puts his arms around me, guiding my hands. “That’s better.”
Mmm, this is nice. I’m in a blissful happy haze, enveloped in his strong arms. Maybe I’ll pretend I’m very slow at learning how to pull pints. Maybe we can stand like this all evening.
“You know—” I begin, turning my head toward him. And then I stop as my eyes focus on something. There’s an old wooden notice on the wall, stating no muddy boots, please and no working clothes. Underneath, another notice has been pinned. It’s printed on yellowing paper in faded marker pen—and it reads: no lawyers.
I’m dumbfounded. No lawyers?
“There we are.” Nathaniel holds up the glass, full of gleaming amber liquid. “Your first ever pint.”
“Er … great!” I say. I pretend to examine the pump, then gesture casually at the sign. “What’s this?”
“I don’t serve lawyers,” he replies.
“Nathaniel! Get over here!” someone calls from the other end of the bar, and he clicks in annoyance.
“I’ll only be a moment.” He touches my hand, then moves away. Immediately I take a deep gulp of wine. He doesn’t serve lawyers. Why doesn’t he serve lawyers?
OK … just calm down, I instruct myself firmly. It’s a joke. Obviously it’s a joke. Everyone hates lawyers, just like everyone hates estate agents and tax collectors. It’s an accepted fact of life.
But they don’t all put up signs about it in their pubs, do they?
As I’m sitting there, the red-haired barman comes up to where I’m standing and scoops some ice out of the tank.
“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’m Eamonn.”
“Samantha.” I shake it with a smile. “I’m here with Nathaniel.”
Eamonn nods. “Welcome to Lower Ebury!”
I watch him serving for a moment, my mind working. This guy will know something about the sign.
“So!” I say when he comes back over. “That sign about lawyers. It’s a … joke, right?”
“Not really,” Eamonn replies cheerfully. “Nathaniel can’t stand lawyers.”
“Right!” Somehow I manage to keep on smiling. “Um … why’s that?”
“Ever since his dad died.” Eamonn hefts a crate of orange mixers onto the bar and I shift round on my stool so I can see him properly.
“Why? What happened?”
“There was some lawsuit between him and the council.” Eamonn pauses in his work. “Nathaniel says it should never have been started in the first place, but Ben got talked into it by the lawyers. He got more and more stressed by it and couldn’t think about anything else—then he had a heart attack.”
“God, how awful,” I say in horror.
Eamonn resumes hefting crates. “Worst thing was, after Ben died they had to sell off one of the pubs. To pay the legal bills.”