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A mile past the turning and a house or two peeking out through breaks in the high hedgerows lay the village of Quincombe. It was scarcely more than four crow-flying miles from Bridgewater Bay, though by tortured laneway the distance seemed twice that far. The verdant green hummocks of the Quantock Hills loped off to the east and the somewhat more severe Brendan Hills maintained a sort of windblown aloofness to the southwest. Beyond Quincombe to the west and south, the countryside began to creep briefly up, then quickly down again by way of savagely cut river valleys and narrow wooded vales. From there one dropped into the heart of Exmoor, every bit as desolate today as it was when Hardy or Conan Doyle set to describing it a century ago. "Is it just houses here in Quincombe?" inquired Sweeney. He craned his neck to see farther ahead as the road bent gently. "Not much more. The odd rural entrepreneur, of course," he indicated an auto repair garage off to the left beyond a low fence, flanked by several sad-looking cars. It appeared shut up tight, hardly entreprenurial by San Francisco standards. "The pub’s the star attraction, naturally," continued Euan. "And just farther on opposite there’s a little shop, tobacconist, and post office all in one. Old Ned the postman’s got a petrol pump as well. We’ve got the basics covered. But if you want anything beyond milk or The West Somerset Times you have to drive to Minehead or Williton." Just past the first jumble of houses the stream swung wider off to the right along the base of a hill divided into large, irregular pastures and the road curved left. A car park appeared to the right and beyond it Sweeney could see a lovely open-beamed, three-story Tudor-style building, recently white-washed, with the name "The Silver Penny" lettered ornately in red over the dark iron-chased door. A pair of semidetached houses stood opposite the pub, fronted with a hip-high iron grillwork fence and matching enameled gates. Euan slowed down, checking out the two houses for a moment, then turning back to the pub. "Do you mind stopping in for a tick, Niall?" he asked. "Fancy a quick pint after that drive, I’ll wager? We can get you settled in at the cottage later. No hurry, is there? You’re on holiday, after all. Let’s see if we can get you some amusing local color." Before Sweeney had time to agree, they’d pulled into the gravel lot with a crunch and a squeak. Euan had to duck to keep from hitting his head on the lintel as he sauntered into the pub, trailing scarf ends. Sweeney, two inches shorter, put his hand up as he entered, happy to learn that it wouldn’t catch him unawares after he’d had a few. Inside the pub was warm and cluttered. One old farmer in a cap and wellies was nursing a pint in front of the walk-in fireplace at the far end of the room. Another somewhat younger man, dressed rather dapper and with short blond hair combed just so sat with his back against the wall, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. He looked up briefly to acknowledge the newcomers with a nod, then returned his attention to his paper. The farmer in the cap barely glanced at them. Another smaller, unoccupied room opened off to the right and a passageway ran under a massive wooden beam to the right side of the small bar, back toward what appeared to be an even larger room. Rustic tables and stools were distributed randomly across the floor. Behind the bar loomed a huge, square man, dark and mottled, maybe about fifty, whose bushy eyebrows were noticeably darker than his thick, reddish-brown hair. The eyebrows hung over a wide, splayed nose and a thin-lipped mouth like a slash from ear to ear. Leaning against the cash register, he raised a hand the size of a ham in half-hearted greeting as they stepped up to the bar. "Euan! What are you doin’ in here? Didn’t expect you till Saturday," he rumbled amiably. "I just stopped in to introduce you to a friend of mine from San Francisco. This is Niall Sweeney. Niall, meet Brick. He owns the place." Sweeney experienced the crushing grip of the enormous hand, grinning as best he could. Brick looked him up and down with an expression of dispassionate rural cool. "We’re just in from Heathrow," continued Euan. "Niall’s gonna decompress a few days at the cottage. After that..." He shrugged. "Well then," said Brick in a cool tone to match the cool look, "you’ll be thirsty, then." Two pint glasses appeared instantly from below the bar. Sweeney deferred to Euan, who ordered, "India Pale Ale. Too early in the day for cider." "Local stuff," stated Brick, pulling the pints. "None better anywhere." Sweeney took his first cooling swallow of the pale ale and smiled an honest smile of transported pleasure. Brick noted the expression and nodded with satisfaction, leaning back against the cash register. "Now, you don’t want to strand him out in that drafty old cottage, do you, Euan? Barely has running water. Middle of nowhere. Take my advice, Mr. California. You can have the back bedroom upstairs here. I’ll give you winter rates." "None of that," objected Euan without interrupting his drinking. "It’s all arranged. He’ll be spending enough money here as it is. Seeing as there’s no alternative." The barman just sniffed. |
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