Free (1990) Sweet Heart by Peter James Page A

winked its lights, flashed its signs, changed its colours and repeated a scale of musical notes every few seconds, its sole audience an old English sheepdog which lay on the floor eyeing it sleepily like a bored impresario at an audition.
    The room had a low ceiling, yellowed from age and smoke, and massive timber beams. Ancient farm implements had been hung on the walls along with a dartboard. There were old-fashioned beer pumps and an unlit inglenook. Beside the dartboard were notices advertising a jumble sale, a steam traction rally, Morris Dancing — ‘Morfydd’s Maidens’.
    A knot of three people stood at the far end of the bar. One Charley recognised, the tall frame of Hugh Boxer, their neighbour, raising a stubby pipe as a greeting. ‘Hi!’ he said.
    He was wearing a crumpled checked shirt, a knitted tie and had an amiable smile on his bearded face, though there was the strong, authoritative presence she had felt before. The grease smears had gone and his hair had been tidied a bit.
    Charley introduced Tom, and Hugh Boxer ordered them drinks and introduced them to the couple he was with. They were called Julian and Zoe Garfield-Hampsen, and lived in the red-brick house with the Grecian columns around the pool at the end of the lane. Yuppie Towers. Julian Garfield-Hampsen was tall, with a booming voice and a ruddy drinker’s face. He wore a striped Jermyn Street shirt with corded cufflinks and smoothed his hand through his fair hair each time hespoke. He was probably about the same age as Tom, but he looked ten years older.
    ‘How super to have another young couple in the lane!’ Zoe said. She had a small, reedy voice and spoke slowly and precisely, which made her sound like a schoolgirl in an elocution lesson. She was the woman Charley had seen walking out of the stables in her bikini and Wellington boots. ‘Julian and I have always simply
adored
Elmwood Mill,’ she added.
    ‘We love it,’ Charley said.
    ‘It’s super! The only thing that put us off buying it is it sits so low down and doesn’t get much sun in the winter.’
    ‘Spritzer.’ Hugh Boxer handed Charley her glass. ‘And a pint of Vic’s best sludge.’
    ‘Cheers.’ Tom held his dark bitter up to the light, studied it for a moment, drank some and nodded approvingly at the landlord.
    The landlord, a stocky, dour man with thinning black hair, made no response for a moment. He turned to take a tumbler from the small aluminium sink, then said, in a dry Midlands accent, ‘Cricketing man, are you?’
    ‘I used to play a bit,’ Tom said surprised.
    The landlord wiped the tumbler with a cloth. ‘Sunday week,’ he said. ‘Ten o’clock, Elmwood Green. We’ve a charity match against Rodmell and we’re two short.’
    ‘I’m a bit rusty. I haven’t played for a few years.’
    ‘Bat or bowl?’
    ‘I used to be a bit of a batsman, I suppose.’
    ‘Put you down for opening bat?’
    ‘Well I wouldn’t — er —’ But the landlord had already started to write his name on a list. ‘Witney? With an
H
or without?’
    ‘Without,’ Tom said, ‘I haven’t got any pads or kit.’
    ‘You get roped into everything down here,’ Hugh said. ‘They’ll have you on every committee going within a month.’
    ‘Viola Letters is doing the tea,’ the landlord continued. ‘I expect she’ll be in touch with you, Mrs Witney.’
    ‘Oh, right,’ Charley said, taken aback but smiling.
    ‘Do you do food at night?’ Tom dug his fingers hungrily into a large bowl of peanuts on the bar.
    ‘Restaurant’s through there.’ The landlord pointed. ‘Last orders for food at nine forty-five.’
    Tom shovelled more peanuts into his mouth. They had half an hour.
    ‘Julian played last year, but he’s hurt his shoulder,’ Zoe said. ‘How many children do you have?’ she asked Charley.
    ‘None, so far.’ Charley’s face always reddened at the question. ‘We — we hope to start a family here.’
    ‘Super!’ The expression on Zoe’s face said,
At