Free Bye Bye Love by Patricia Burns Page B

opportunity was just too good to miss. If he turned it down, it would never come again. The day had started so well, too. They had been so happy, larking around on the beach and watching the carnival. And now this. Scarlett was locked in her room, probably crying, and he was here feeling like a complete monster, trying to find a way through.
    He held his head in his hands, digging his fingers into his scalp. This was all so confusing. He’d known roughly where his life was going and suddenly Scarlett had come along and everything had been turned upside down. If this was what they called love, then it wasn’t at all like all the songs and stuff. He still hadn’t worked it out when seven o’clock rolled round and he had to go downstairs.
    Both bars were heaving. Men were three deep trying to get served and every seat and practically all the standing room was taken. The air was already thick with cigarette smoke and the noise was tremendous.
    ‘There you are, son,’ his father boomed above the racket. ‘’Bout time too. Get your arse in gear and clear those tables.’
    ‘You said seven,’ Jonathan shouted back at him, and dived through the melée to grab the glasses from the nearest table.
    His hands full, he scurried along the dank passage leading to the toilets and into the small storeroom behind the bar area that had been fitted with a sink and draining board for just such busy times as this. Scarlett was already there, drying a trayful of pint jugs. She stiffened as he came in, but didn’t turn round.
    ‘Scarlett,’ he began, placing the dirty glasses in the sink, ‘please try and see it my way—’
    ‘Why should I?’ she retorted. ‘You don’t see it my way. You don’t care that I’m going to be left here all alone.’
    ‘Of course I do. I don’t want—’
    Scarlett thrust the finished tray at him.
    ‘You’d best take these through. I’m not allowed.’
    Jonathan sighed and carted the jugs into the bar.
    It was frantic in the serving area. Irma and a temporary barmaid were in the lounge bar, Mr Smith and another temporary in the public bar area and his parents were moving between the two, keeping a watchful eye on the whole pub and serving more than the other four put together.
    ‘Seventeen and eightpence, not tuppence,’ he heard his father correct Mr Smith, as he pulled a pint for the round he was serving. His dad was good at that, adding up someone else’s round and his own at the same time and getting both of them right. Bar staff found it unnerving, but it made them concentrate harder on being accurate, even when it was as busy as this. Jonathan unloaded the jugs and dived under the flap to collect some more.
    The evening rolled on with no slackening of the pace. Jonathan collected glasses, emptied ashtrays and fetched supplies up from the cellar. Every time he took empties in to Scarlett he tried to reason with her, but somehow they never got further than a few sentences. Either one of the barmaids would come to fetch a clean trayful, or his mother or father would shout for him to come and do something. Once when he came through the passageway he ran into Scarlett’s father. He was leaning against the wall swigging from a flat quarter bottle of Scotch. When he saw Jonathan he hastily screwed the top on and thrust it in his pocket.
    ‘I bought it myself,’ he said.
    ‘Yes, of course,’ Jonathan replied, but a lifetime of listening to his parents discussing the shortcomings of bar staff made him wonder. Maybe Mr Smith had bought the original bottle from an off-licence. They didn’t sell them at the pub, after all. But it would be easy enough to refill it from the optics. A squirt here and a squirt there wouldn’t be missed in the volume they sold on a busy day but, if his parents did find out, there would be hell to pay. It was yet another thing to worry about.
    He took the latest lot of empties through to Scarlett and, as he did so, the sound of angry voices could be heard above the