hear she’s replacing the canopy as well.’ Hester Bradshaw sniffed to show him what she thought of that as she and the Major waited for him to pour their usual gin and dubonnet and half an ale. ‘I admit the place was looking very shabby, but I’m not sure red is quite the thing for Lavender Bay, do you, Ronnie?’
The Major harrumphed and stroked his fingers over his moustache. ‘Not the thing at all. It’ll look like a bloody stick of rock.’
‘Or a tube of toothpaste,’ she added through lips so tightly pursed they reminded Sam of a dog’s rear-end. Giving her a non-committal smile, he wondered what she said out of earshot about the pub sign swinging over The Siren’s front door. It had been commissioned by Pops, way back in the day, and if the namesake mermaid it featured didn’t draw sailors to their doom with her beautiful voice, her generous boobs would certainly draw them off course.
His mum wandered in from the back to join him, lifting the tea towel from where it was draped over his shoulder and began to polish the already-spotless glasses waiting on the rack beneath the bar. ‘Evening Hester, Ronnie, how are you this evening?’
‘Mustn’t grumble.’ The Major raised his half-pint in salute and sucked the foam through his thick moustache.
‘I was just telling your son about the new colour scheme next door.’ Mrs Bradshaw whispered the two words as though she was saying something obscene.
Annie flicked her tea towel at a non-existent spot of dust, the gesture dismissive. ‘Well, I for one think it looks wonderful. I’m delighted to see Beth making a few changes around the place. Hopefully her efforts will spur a few others into having a spruce up.’ She turned to Sam. ‘Speaking of which. It’s about time our front had a makeover. I’m bored of that white everywhere. What do you say?’
He stroked his chin, pretending to give the matter serious consideration while he tried to disguise the grin tugging at his lips. His mum could be a right wind-up merchant when she got in the mood, and the sparkle in her eyes told him what she thought the Major and his interfering wife could go and do. ‘I think you might be right, Mum. Something vibrant—a nice sunny yellow, perhaps? Or something bolder like an azure blue.’ He glanced towards Hester whose cheeks had turned an alarming shade. ‘Puce, perhaps?’
His mum covered a laugh with a cough, giving him a nudge with her elbow as she leaned past him to grab another already-clean glass. ‘Mmm…yellow. You could be onto something there, Sammy. I’ll have to have a chat with Emma up at Bunches and see about redesigning the baskets and pots. Lots of orange marigolds…’
Sam bit the inside of his cheek. The cascading floral display outside the pub was his mum’s pride and joy. She spent hours planning the designs with her friend from the florist’s and they were always subtle hues of lilac, pink and blue. If Hester stopped and thought about it for a moment, she would know Annie was pulling her leg. But that would require a sense of humour, something the woman sadly lacked.
The Major tucked his hand under his wife’s elbow and steered her away from the bar before she had an apoplexy. She was still chuntering away about tasteful design and calling an emergency meeting of the improvement society, but Sam let it drift into the background. It seemed like everyone in town had an opinion on the changes Beth was making, perhaps it was time he checked it out for himself.
He turned to his mum. ‘Will you be all right here for a bit on your own?’
She raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything more than, ‘Yes, love.’
On a whim, he took a detour upstairs to dig around in the freezer. His hand closed on a Tupperware box and he withdrew the delicate pistachio macarons he’d made a few weeks previously. Sam pushed against the wooden gate in the fence surrounding the rear of the emporium and was stopped short by the resisting lock. Pausing to rub his shoulder, he stared up at the back of the building. Eleanor had never kept the gate bolted, but he should have thought that Beth might do so. The first-floor sash window had been pushed up and the strains of a radio competed with a metallic bang and the kind of language even Pops might blush at.
The swearing paused, and Sam cupped his free hand to his mouth and called out. ‘Hey, Beth, are you there?’ It was a stupid question. Of course she was there, for there was no mistaking the slight husk in the stream of invective that followed.
‘Useless, no good bloody bastard!’ Beth shoved her head out the open window. Her normally shiny hair had been yanked up into an untidy knot, and there was not a scrap of make-up on her sweaty face. ‘Whatever it is, Sam, I don’t have time.’
Feeling abashed, he stepped back. ‘Sorry, I just thought you might fancy a brew and a bit of a treat.’ He held up the Tupperware container like a peace offering.
The deep frown between her brows softened. ‘What’s in the box?’
Sam shook his head, taken another couple of steps back towards the pub. ‘Never mind. You’re obviously busy so we can catch up some other time.’ He turned away.
‘What’s. In. The. Bloody. Box?’
He bit his lip. He knew he had her, but forced himself to shrug. ‘Just some macarons I baked the other…’
‘Don’t move! You stay right where you are, Sam Barnes!’ He grinned—she’d always had a sweet tooth. Not ten seconds later he heard the soles of her shoes slapping against the cobbles of the back alley then the bolt scraped back.
The front of her T-shirt was soaking wet, the thin cotton moulding to her breasts. She followed his gaze, then quickly folded her arms across her chest. ‘Sorry. I’m just having a spot of bother with the sink. You did say macarons, right?’ Keeping one arm banded across her front, Beth reached with the other for the box in his hand.
Feeling like a letch for staring, Sam let her take it without resistance. She prised open the lid to inhale the rich scent of the sweets with a throaty moan that made the skin on the back of his neck prickle. His eyes strayed to the front of her wet top then skittered away. ‘Having a spot of bother?’ He waved a hand towards her saturated clothes, careful to keep his gaze fixed over her left shoulder.
‘What?’ Beth dragged her attention away from the macarons. ‘Oh, shit, the sink!’ Her trainers squelched as she turned and ran back towards the shop. Sam followed hard on her heels.
They hit the threshold of the upstairs kitchen together, and stopped. The cupboards beneath the sink stood open, bottles of cleaning products and cloths scattered all over the place. A steady flow of water leaked from one of the pipes lining the back wall adding to the rapidly spreading pool which covered most of the black-and-white checked floor tiles. ‘Jesus Christ, what happened?’
‘The dishwasher wasn’t working properly, so I tried to check the connections, but the tap has seized. I thought I’d turned the stopcock the right way.’ Her explanation ended in a small wail of despair. Sam edged past her, feet splish-splashing through the puddle. Knowing there was no other way around it, he grit his teeth in preparation for the shock of the cold and sat down in the water so he could lie back in the cupboard and examine the problem.
The on-off tap for the cold-water pipe was stuck fast, as she’d said. ‘Shit.’ He ran his eyes frantically over everything, trying to trace the pipe back to the source. The stopcock Beth had mentioned was wedged in the far corner and there was too much crap on the shelves between him and it.
Sam dragged his eyes from the tangle of pipes to see Beth still hovering in the doorway. ‘Look,
