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George didn’t argue. If their shared hair colouring wasn’t evidence enough of his parentage, he would have been delighted to agree. He didn’t feel like his father’s son, and he never had.
Chas angled his bulk forward, as if tempted to use a fist to reinforce his argument.
George held his father’s glare. It had been a while since the old man had tried hitting him. Last time hadn’t worked too well, and somehow, he knew he would not try this time. The body language was a bluff. Perhaps he sensed his son was likely to hit him back now. Besides, Chas Halcyon was not ageing well.
Red turned to purple on the older Halcyon’s face, pinpricks of sweat gleamed on his skin. ‘GET OUT!’ he roared, flinging one fat hand in the air. ‘Get out! I don’t want to see you in here again, you spineless waste of space.’
Blinded by anger, George let out a stream of abuse, banged out of his father’s office and barged his way through the garage.
The stink of the place, rust, sump oil and decades of dried blood made him want to vomit. Pushing past a surprised man in overly clean mechanic’s overalls, George slammed the door and marched out onto the city street, gulping at car fume laden air like it was pure oxygen.
In the ominous heat, he continued walking for at least an hour, unsure where he was going, only wanting it to be as far away as possible from his father, his history and the Halcyon workshop where everyone knew bad things happened.
On and on he went until the storm broke, cracking the sky open with eye blinding lightning. He threw his head back to face the rain, only to discover he was looking at the ornate Fig & Firkin sign. He was outside his local pub, a street away from home.
Realising he’d been walking in circles, he blinked the rain from his eyes, and chucked himself through the dark double doors of the Fig & Firkin, timing his entry perfectly with a drumroll of thunder.
It was an entrance worthy of a spaghetti western. George imagined himself standing like a gunslinger on the inset coconut doormat, scowling around the almost empty bar. He must look like a hard man. As tough as his father. Different but just as hard … maybe harder.
‘Got caught, did yer?’ Old Jake, one of the few regulars still frequenting the recently refurbished pub, laughed at him.
‘Yeah.’ George nodded, swiped his wet ginger hair away from his brow and manfully strode to the bar.
‘Service!’ he shouted into the space behind the bar and hit the mahogany with the flat of his hand.
From down among the mixers below the counter, a vision of beauty rose before him. Pale skin, sparkling dark sapphire blue eyes, slender neck, dark, dark hair falling in loose waves to below her shoulders. George held his breath. The girl looked at him. He swallowed his heart, feeling as if lightning had struck.
‘Uh, sorry. I mean … uh, can I please have a pint of best bitter?’
‘Aye,’ she tilted her head at him. ‘Barn Owl, do for ye?’
‘Yes, please. Sorry.’
Her magical sapphire eyes sparkled at him. ‘Ye’ve nae reason to be sorry a sheòid,’ she said in an accent, soft, precise, and with an emphasis on the r sounds.
‘No, yes… um.’ He flapped his arms. ‘But I am sorry,’ he argued, unnerved by the way she was looking at him, unused to such scrutiny.
He was always an afterthought, the consolation prize beside his best mate, Owen. Most girls ignored him in preference for the Welsh babe magnet. But right then, the expression in those startlingly beautiful blue eyes was one of curiosity. He could almost believe she was interested in him. No–impossible! More likely it was because he’d been rude. Perhaps she was waiting for an apology. He needed to make amends.
He said, ‘I’m sorry, I should have been more polite just now. I didn’t know there was a lady behind the bar.’
Her eyebrows shot up, and laughing, she said, ‘A lady! My goodness, you are a charmer, my bonnie wee golden knight in shining armour.’ Her eyes darkened, softening at him as she added: ‘So sweet.’
Sweet!Offended by the description, thinking she was laughing at him, and not sure how to react to being called a wee golden knight, George pulled cash from his pocket and tossed it on the bar.
Sullenly he watched as the vision of loveliness expertly handled the beer pump. He held his breath, watching her fingers encircle the shaft, drawing it down, steady and firm. The beer flowed. The air came alive with the smell of hops, malt and yeast. Anticipation seemed to thrum in his nerve ends.
‘There ye are. Enjoy your drink,’ she said with an eyelash fluttering smile, and pushed the glass across the mahogany top towards him.
George raked around in his brain for something interesting to say. Didn’t find a thing, except thanks and cheers, which he muttered as he lifted the beer to his lips, feeling foolish.
Halfway down the pint, he’d decided the beautiful girl going about her work behind the bar wasn’t interested in him. Why would she be? Yes, she did occasionally glance his way, but that meant nothing. She couldn’t be interested in him. He was just a not too tall, average looking, skinny bloke with a mop of ginger hair.
But thirty minutes later, with a second pint in front of him, he found the courage to ask:
‘Are you on shift all evening?’
‘Aye, I am.’ She ran a cloth over the bar, then leant her elbows on it and rested her chin on her hands, looking at him as if she expected more from him.
