The Impulse Purchase, page 14
20
Cherry, Maggie, Rose and Gertie left for Rushbrook in convoy the morning of the pub handover. Cherry had piled up her car with an assortment of paraphernalia from the basement of Admiral House – ornaments and lamps and fabric remnants; anything she thought might come in useful for the revamp – as well as gallons of carefully chosen paint. Maggie had all her favourite kitchen equipment. It was a strange feeling, like setting off on holiday, but also the thrill of the new venture infected them all. Rose was worried that Gertie might be sick, she was so hyper, and had to sit next to her in the back of Maggie’s Mini to calm her down.
‘I’m coming back up at the weekend,’ said Maggie. ‘So if anyone’s forgotten anything I can pick it up.’
Space was going to be at a premium in the boathouse, so they were travelling light.
As she drove over the suspension bridge, leaving Admiral House behind her, Cherry’s excitement was dampened by the fact that Mike hadn’t been there to see her off. She had thought he would come round to her buying The Swan after the shock had worn off, but he still wouldn’t discuss anything to do with it. He wasn’t sulking, exactly, or hostile to her – only the idea. Over the past weeks, with emails back and forth between Cherry and Howard and Alan and his solicitor, he had refused to talk any of it through with her. She found it unnerving. Not that she couldn’t make her own decisions, but she valued his opinion and his point of view. He was adamant he was staying out of it.
‘I can’t pretend that I think it’s a good idea,’ he told her one night. ‘So I’d rather say nothing.’
So the atmosphere between them was strained. They didn’t argue, and he still cooked her lovely meals and they still curled up in bed together at night, but somehow The Swan had become the elephant in the room. Mike’s downer on it didn’t deter Cherry, though. The more she dug into the idea, the more excited she was and the more convinced they would make a success of it.
She felt sure that once they had turned it around, he would relent.
‘I’m only protecting you,’ he told her again, and she knew he wasn’t being patronising, just caring, but there was nothing she could say to change his mind. And she did feel a little hurt that he had shot off to the university early that morning, and not stayed to wave them off. Maybe he was right? Maybe she was making a terrible mistake?
But as she pulled up in front of the pub, she felt her resolve return. The Swan was looking demure in the mid-morning sunshine, as if butter wouldn’t melt, as if it didn’t hold any nasty surprises or horror stories inside its thick stone walls, but would emerge when they reopened as resplendent as a blushing bride at the altar.
Behind her, the others pulled up and tumbled out of the car. They stood on the lawn, the four of them, surveying the place that would be their raison d’être for the foreseeable future.
‘Two weeks,’ said Cherry. ‘Do you think we can do it in two weeks? Or are we mad?’
‘Two weeks . . .’ Maggie quailed. Being in charge of the kitchen, she had the most to organise. The food could make or break a pub, and you had to get it right from the start. You didn’t want any disgruntled customers wandering off grumbling about half-cooked chips or greasy lasagne.
‘Course we can,’ said Rose, uplifted by the scent of apple blossom. ‘There’s not much wrong with it, after all. And it will be a work in progress. We don’t have to get it all right first time.’
‘At least summer’s here,’ said Maggie. ‘People will forgive a lot if it’s sunny, and they’ve got a glass of cider in their hand.’
‘Well, the Fabulous Builder Brothers are coming tomorrow, so we need to be ready with a plan,’ said Cherry. ‘I don’t want them standing around with nothing to do.’
The Fabulous Builder Brothers had dropped everything to rearrange their diary for Cherry as she’d given them so much work over the years. A chippy and a sparks by trade, they could turn their hand to anything and didn’t look at her as if she was mad when she told them what she wanted. They had agreed to come down in their campervan and stay in the car park till the job was done. It would be a bit of a holiday for them.
‘We can try out our new menus on them,’ said Maggie. They would be harsh critics. They were bearded, tattooed hipsters who took their coffee and their sourdough very seriously. If the menu got past them, they’d be on the right track.
‘Here’s Alan.’ Cherry put her hand up and waved as they all watched Alan’s beaten-up burgundy Volvo rattle along the road and swing into the car park. None of them could believe how quickly things had moved. Nothing had been officially signed and sealed yet, but he and Cherry had agreed there was no point in prolonging the takeover, that it was best for all of them if it happened straight away. The pub licence was being transferred; Maggie already had a personal licence from when she had run the tapas bar, and Cherry had applied to the council for her own licence, for good measure.
Alan parked and got out of his car, a country pub landlord to the end in his beige cords and checked shirt and big cardigan with the leather buttons. They hung back for a moment as he looked at the building that had been his life for so long, until Fred and Ginger raced around from the garden at the back where they had been exploring, to discover who the interloper was, and broke the spell.
Alan walked towards them all, a wide smile on his round face, dangling the keys aloft.
‘My beautiful Swan,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be leaving her in such safe hands.’ He stopped and blinked. There were tears in eyes. ‘It’s going to be the pub it should be.’
‘We want it to be everything it was in its heyday,’ said Maggie. ‘We have such fond memories, all of us.’
‘Oh, the glory days,’ said Alan. ‘There were times when I was fully booked every night of the week, and no one left till gone midnight.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘I’m not sure my liver will ever forgive me. I’ve run the pub into the ground, though,’ he went on, darkly. ‘She deserves better.’
‘We’ll do our very best to get The Swan back on her feet,’ said Cherry. ‘We’ll resurrect her in your honour. We’ll make you proud.’
‘I can’t thank you enough.’ He was choked with tears. This was an emotional morning for him. ‘We’re setting off tomorrow. Three weeks in Croatia. I’m just hoping . . .’ He coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Anyway, here you are. The keys to the kingdom.’ He passed over the tasselled fob. ‘Forgive me if I don’t come in. But I’m on the end of a phone whenever you need me.’ He put up his hands in a gesture that encompassed farewell, thanks and good luck, but which also told them not to come near him. They could see it wouldn’t take much for him to break down. ‘Farewell.’
He turned and walked back to his car. They all looked at each other.
‘I can’t bear it,’ said Rose. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘We’re doing a good thing,’ said Cherry. ‘Here, Gertie.’ Cherry handed her great-granddaughter the key. ‘Go and find the keyhole, darling. You can be our lucky mascot.’
The four of them marched over the gravel chippings to the arched front door of the pub. Gertie stood on tiptoe and inserted the key, looking up at her mum to help her. Rose put her hand over her daughter’s and twisted until they all heard the lock click back. Rose pushed open the door, and they all stood for a moment on the threshold, filled with anticipation. In the end, Fred and Ginger barged in first, barking with excitement at the thought of what might be inside, so they followed.
It was dark and gloomy and smelled stale. The stools were up on the tables. Despite the warm weather outside, it was damp and cold; the air stagnant. It felt hostile and unwelcoming. It wasn’t a place you’d want to be in for more than five minutes. Maggie shivered.
‘Get the curtains and the windows open,’ commanded Cherry. ‘I’ll light a fire. Put some music on, Rose. It just needs some life in it. All pubs look awful first thing in the morning.’
And she was right. In twenty minutes, with fresh air and light streaming in, and a fire blazing away, and some tinkling piano music coming out of the speakers, the atmosphere felt completely different. It was strange, though, sitting in the empty pub, at the table they always used to commandeer if they could, with a large window to one side and the fireplace to the other. Despite the music, the quiet was disconcerting. The Swan had always been so lively. Rowdy at times. To get all those people back was going to be a tall order.
Maggie poured them coffee and Cherry lifted her mug.
‘I want to propose a toast,’ she said. ‘To my mum, for giving me the means to do this. Her nest egg gave me the courage to make the biggest impulse purchase of my life. It might seem foolhardy, but I’m convinced we will do great things. So this is to Catherine, for making this happen. For all of us.’
‘To Granny,’ said Maggie.
‘To GG,’ said Rose, her nickname for her great-grandmother.
‘GG,’ crowed Gertie, clinking her mug carefully with each of the other’s in turn.
Cherry could picture Catherine, in her Liberty blouse and faded jeans and old tennis shoes, her white hair held back with a tortoiseshell hairband, ordering her favourite Cumberland sausage and mash. Cherry couldn’t stop wishing she was here to see them all. Today was a turning point, an exciting new venture for all of them that Catherine had gifted them, even if she didn’t know it.
‘So,’ she said. ‘The grand reopening is the Friday after next. How do we do this?’
‘Right,’ said Maggie. ‘Roughly speaking, Mum is front of house, I’m in charge of the kitchen and Rose—’
‘Just call me the groundsman,’ grinned Rose.
‘I suggest we spend today drawing up a game plan and a shopping list. We can’t just go nuts and spend our way through this. We’ve got a budget to stick to and I’m going to be strict about it from the start because it’ll be tempting to splurge. We want it to be beautiful but anyone can make somewhere beautiful if they splash enough cash.’
‘I’m very good at doing things on the cheap,’ Cherry protested.
‘Hmm,’ said Maggie doubtfully. ‘I know you can spot a bargain but you do love an expensive light fitting.’
‘OK, so that Murano glass chandelier thing was about a gazillion pounds, but I can rein it in. I’m the queen of compromise.’
Rose smiled to herself and pulled out a colouring book for Gertie. Her mum and grandmother could go on like this for hours. Cherry was spontaneous and impulsive while Maggie tended to be very exacting and organised. ‘Mum. You’ve got to give Cherry free rein and not be controlling,’ she said.
‘It’s OK, darling,’ said Cherry. ‘I’ve got to remember this is a business and not my home.’
‘Exactly,’ said Maggie. ‘Though we do want your magic touch. Tell us your vision again.’
They’d discussed it often enough, but somehow hearing it in situ would bring it all to life.
‘I want The Swan to keep everything that we loved about it,’ said Cherry. ‘Its quintessential country pub-ness. The way it’s the heart of the village, but also welcoming to outsiders, strangers, visitors. A place to eat, drink and be merry. A place for quiet contemplation or a rowdy party, depending on your mood. But I want it to be so much more than that. Something softer, warmer, more inviting. Something that’s in the spirit of us three. Something . . .’ Cherry struggled to find the word. ‘Nurturing? Does that sound pretentious?’
‘No,’ said Maggie. ‘I think that’s lovely. Something for everyone. Inclusive, not exclusive. And timeless.’
‘Yes. I want people to feel as if they are stepping into another world. One where they feel at home.’
‘That’s it,’ said Rose. ‘They need to feel at home, but also as if they are a special guest. Looked after.’
Cherry clapped her hands. ‘Do you know, it’s weird, but I’ve never felt so excited about a project. I guess because this feels as if it’s got a point to it. For the first time in my life, I feel as if I’m doing something constructive. Not just choosing wallpaper.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Mum,’ Maggie frowned.
‘You know what I mean. This is a real challenge. It’s not just about deciding where to put an RSJ or whether to have seagrass or coir. This is about people. Creating something they want to be a part of. It’s pretty scary, too, because what do I know about running a pub?’
‘We’re pretty sussed between us. And we’ve got Alan on speed dial, remember. Loads of people who run a pub have never done it before.’
‘Yes, and loads of people run them into the ground and lose a fortune.’ She echoed Mike’s sentiments, feeling his absence once again. He should be here, she thought wistfully.
‘Don’t get cold feet now. There’s no time for panic.’ Rose turned to Gertie, who was doing some careful colouring. ‘Gertie? What do you think the pub needs?’
‘Chickens,’ said the little girl, decisively. ‘Can we have chickens?’
Maggie laughed. ‘I suppose we’ll need eggs.’
‘Chickens would be amazing,’ agreed Rose.
‘We need a chef first,’ said Maggie. ‘Bar staff. A cleaner. I’ve put an advert up in the village shop. It would be nice to use local people where we can. And as many women as we can.’
‘That would be cool,’ said Rose. ‘To have an all-woman team.’
‘We’ll probably have to take what we’re given. A female chef would be great, though.’
‘Let’s get hiring,’ said Cherry. ‘We want to open the doors in two weeks’ time and have some sort of menu up and running, even if it’s just really basic. Do you reckon we can do it, Maggie?’
‘One hundred per cent,’ said Maggie. ‘Even if I have to get in the kitchen myself.’
Cherry swept her gaze around the bar. There was a limit to how much they could change in two weeks, but she was determined to give it a really fresh feel, whilst keeping it comfortingly familiar.
She felt a thrill rush through her. The challenge was daunting but exciting, but the stakes were high. And underlying it was the quiet unease she felt at the state of her relationship with Mike. She knew what he feared: that in six months’ time they would be standing in a cold, empty pub teetering on the brink of bankruptcy.
She was not going to let that happen.
21
Maggie braced herself to walk into the kitchen. She knew Alan’s chef had walked out on him and he’d had to rely on a temporary chef brought in from an agency, so her hopes of finding a clean and orderly kitchen weren’t high. In the end, it had all got too much and Alan had got rid of the chef and simply stopped serving the food that The Swan had once been so well known for. Her heart went out to him – the captain of a sinking ship struggling to keep afloat, while also battling the nightmare of Gillian’s illness. At least now he didn’t have to worry about how to keep the pub buoyant, or feel he was letting the village down. He could focus on his darling wife. Maggie’s throat went tight when she thought about them heading off to Croatia.
The kitchen was even worse than she’d expected. Alan had freely admitted to shutting the door on it, and it was just as the temporary chef had left it. There were piles of dirty pans next to the sink, and she didn’t dare open the dishwasher. The burner was coated in grease, and the walls around it were spattered with fat. Nothing was where it should be. The fridge was full of unidentifiable rotting produce and she slammed the door shut. The floor was grimy; the strip lights coated in dead flies.
It needed a deep clean, and some new shelving, and proper organisation. Everything was piled up haphazardly, with no sense of order, no labelling. She resolved to throw every item of food out and start again. She knew she was being a little draconian, but if she was in charge, she needed the kitchen immaculate. She had only got where she was today by being obsessive and organised.
The more she investigated, the more she felt rising panic. Eventually she shut her eyes and counted to ten, running through her options. She could call an agency to do a deep clean. Or she could get over herself and get her rubber gloves on. If she opened the windows, put on the radio and sang her way through it, she could save several hundred pounds that she could then spend on new equipment.
She didn’t want to think about what might be hiding in the corners. Cockroaches, mice or even worse, rats.
She went out to the car. She’d had the foresight to bring as many cleaning products as she could with her: bleach, surface cleaner and scouring pads. She lifted the box out of the boot and put it on the draining board. She grabbed an extra-strength bin bag and flung every bottle and every jar she could find into it. Every packet of pasta and rice, every box of salt. It might seem wasteful but she couldn’t risk using any of it. She steeled herself as she opened the fridge and flung out bags of decomposing greenery, packets of rancid cheese and butter, and cartons of sour milk, shuddering and trying not to retch.
She opened the dishwasher and was relieved to find it empty, so she put it on its hottest wash to freshen it up so she could load it. Each pot, pan and plate in the kitchen was going to go through twice.
Then she filled the sink with hot soapy water and snapped on a pair of bright yellow rubber gloves so she could scrub down every surface and every shelf.
She was halfway through the pile of pans when her phone rang. Mario. She frowned. What did he want? Curiosity got the better of her, and she pulled off her gloves and answered.
‘Maggie.’ His voice trickled down the line like warm extra virgin olive oil.
‘Yes,’ she said, cautious.
‘I just found out from Zara. You sold the business to her.’
‘I did. Not that it makes any difference to you.’ The betrayal still stung.
‘Maggie.’ His voice was full of reproach. ‘Listen. Have dinner with me. I miss you. And I want to say thank you for everything you did for us.’
‘Well, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.’
