Last week I wrote Monday to Tuesday (if you haven’t read that, then this will make little sense), this is the second part. It’s a short story about Lauren. Recently fired, Lauren drives out of London to the Yorkshire Dales. Seeking escape and a release she sleeps in her car before embarking on a hike through one of the UK’s best national parks. We rejoin the story after she has just met Greg (a local) on the road.
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“Fine,” I say, and my gaze drops to his hands clutching the straps of his backpack. His knuckles are white with the pressure.
The Horse Shoe is as pretty as you're imagining, pretty enough for a picture postcard. Built from stone and timber and with a roof made of black slate, it leans a little to the left. A metal sign hangs from the front wall, rocking gently in the breeze. Outside, a quad bike and a Land Rover wait, both caked in mud. In the back seats of the Land Rover, two border collies gulp in the air from the cracked window. The window's stained with their spit.
“Graham’s Rover,” Greg says, posting his hand through the cracked window to pet the delirious dogs. “This is Millie, and the big one is George.”
I can’t help scoffing. An ex of mine had a dog called Roger. I never understood why people gave their animals human names.
“What?”
“Nothing, they’re very muddy,” I say, peering into the truck.
“Oi, thief!” A gruff voice calls from behind us. I jump back and raise my hands. It’s Greg’s turn to scoff.
“Lauren, Graham. Graham, Lauren,” Greg introduces. Graham reaches out his hand. It's thick, with black hair curling between the joints of his fingers. Dirt clings to the crevasse around his fingernails. But his smile is warm and welcoming, capable of putting anyone at ease.
“What brings such a pretty young woman out here?” Graham asks, my hand encased in his.
“I got fired yesterday,” I say quickly. It’s the first time I’ve said it aloud. Greg looks at me, Oh, that explains a lot, his eyes say.
“Well, in that case, there’s no better place for you to be. And you’ve found yourself the perfect guide.” He says, releasing my hand and clamping down on Greg’s.
“You’ve never been so kind, Graham,” Greg says, smiling through his teeth.
“Too right. I can't go soft on you just because you spend half your time in the city,” Graham replies, tightening his grip. It’s a game of masculinity; neither of them is willing to show a sign of discomfort.
“Children, hey,” another man says, joining our impromptu meeting outside the pub.
“You’d never guess they are both middle-aged.”
“Oh shut up, man, you’re no better,” Graham says, releasing Greg’s hand. It seems as if they have called it a draw. Both men nod gentlemanly and then turn back towards me.
“Lauren, this is George.”
“I thought the dog was George.”
“He is. I named him after this idiot.” Graham says, walking around the Rover and opening the door.
“That’s his way of saying he loves me,” George says, opening the passenger door and climbing in.
“Anyway you two. Enjoy your pies.” Graham shouts over the grumbling engine. “And if you need a job, I always need a hand on the farm. I hate doing the bookkeeping.”
“Thanks,” I say as the Rover backs into the road and splutters down the road, followed by a shadow of black smoke.
“I don’t know how that thing is still running. It’s been like that since I’ve known him, which is forever.”
A faint smell of cigarette smoke and meat greets us inside. Decorative plates and football scarves hang off the old wooden beams. Greg and I slid into a booth made from what I guess are two church pues and a school table.
There’s no menu on the table, just several water rings left by years of loyal customers.
“This place is as old as time,” Greg says, wiping his hand over the table.
“Looks like it."
"My father used to say it was the first pub in the entire Dales. But no one has ever been able to prove it."
"You could fool me."
"Welcome to the oldest pub in the Dales. They have the best pies in the world."
"Very convincing. So what are we ordering?”
“We aren't.” There’s a silly smirk curling his lips. It belongs in a playground or at the back of a classroom.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. It’s just if we were in a swanky SoHo place right now, you would probably be more excited to hear that we don’t have to order.”
“How do you know what gets me going?”
“I don’t.”
“Exactly. Besides, I’m not really a foodie. I’ve never been to a Michelin Star, I've never ordered a taster menu, and I survive on instant noodles.”
“Well check you out. Your full name must be Lauren Humble.”
The landlady comes to take our order, drinks, not food. She suits her role, somewhere lost in the vagueness of middle age but with sparkling green eyes that give her youthful energy. Greg orders some IPA that sounds as disgusting as you can get. I order a Coke. Before our drinks reach our ring-stained table, more people join us; some sit at the bar, and a family of four slides into the church pue booth opposite.
“Not bad,” I say, flapping the flaky pastry off my jumper.
“If you ask Betty, she can tell you the cow's name and what it last ate.”
“I’m all for local farming. But I prefer ignorance. At least until I’ve finished.”
The cramped little pub is in full swing when we leave. And it’s not just the expected locals, with their outfits of tweed and mud. Others like me are here too, some from further afield. Bright yellow jackets and blue beanies brighten the otherwise colourless while wide-lens cameras rest on the ends of tables.
“Wanna carry on?” Greg asks, peering out the window to look at the sky.
“Not really.” He takes a little while to register what I’ve said. His gaze is fixed on the moving pillowy clouds.
“We should go soon, or the weather will catch us before we get over the hill.”
“Or we could stay here, have a few drinks and wander back later.”
“But I thought you had a plan for the day?”
“Plans change, I guess.”
“Huh, I suppose they do." I pick off the last pieces of pastry from my lap. I can sense him fidgeting. “Want another coke?”
“Do they have G&Ts?”
“They do. Betty brews her own botanicals.”
"Really?"
"Really."
“I’ll have two of those.”
Love, Luke
Buy my debut novel today! Search ‘Love, Loss & the View from My Window’ on your local Amazon marketplace.
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Blurb -
A young man, torn apart by grief, struggles to forget his past and find his way into adulthood. Living close by, an elderly lady battles her deteriorating mind, trying to hold on to her memories. Serendipity and the elements pull them together in a café trapped in time. Their peculiar relationship blossoms, helping one come to terms with life and love and the other with death and loss.
'Love, Loss & the View from My Window' is Luke's debut novel. This strange and sombre tale was inspired by his experiences with dementia and shame. Luke watched both of his grandmothers suffer from various types of dementia. He was perplexed by the lack of understanding modern medicine can provide. While growing up, he dealt with shame in its various forms. These two factors have been brought together in this book to question the illusion of a 'normal' brain and to celebrate our ability to succeed in light of our shortfalls.