Page 39 of The Winter of Second Chances
‘I didn’t have time to experiment with drugs,’ said Annie. ‘I was a parent at seventeen.’
‘Well,’ said Paul, leading her away from the churchyard to a wooded area set back from the path. ‘You’re a big girl now.’
He pulled a pouch of tobacco out of his jeans pocket and to Annie’s horrified delight, began to roll a joint.
‘It’s the middle of the day,’ she whispered. ‘In public!’
Paul laughed softly and guided her to a fallen tree, motioning for her to sit down. Annie sat on the prostrate trunk and craned her neck to see around them. There was nothing but trees.
‘It’s a Saturday afternoon,’ said Paul in a soothing voice. ‘We’re not working. To my knowledge, neither of us is planning to handle heavy machinery anytime soon, and we are nowhere near any of the public.’
He lit the joint. The pointed end curled and blackened and drifted to the ground. Paul sucked hard, the tip glowed orange and crackled. He breathed in, held it for a long moment and then exhaled slowly. The creamy smoke plumed into the air, thick and pungently fragrant. He held it out to Annie.
‘It’s not strong,’ he said. ‘Think of it as an aperitif.’
Annie hesitated and then took the spliff from Paul. She tentatively sucked, pulling the fragrant smoke down into her lungs and trying to suppress the spasms that urged her to cough. She held her breath for a moment and let it go. Her head swam a little but not unpleasantly. She passed it back to him and let the sensation wash over her.
‘Woah,’ she said, feeling kind of spongy, as though she might melt into the tree trunk like candlewax.
Paul grinned as Annie took another drag.
‘I feel so...funky,’ she said.
Paul chuckled.
‘Funky?’
‘Yeah,’ said Annie. ‘And smooth like a peach, only wobblier like goo.’
‘Man, I wish I was in your head right now,’ said Paul.
By the time they left, having shared the joint sixty–forty in Paul’s favour, Annie’s limbs felt deliciously soft, the grass beneath her feet a thick bouncy underlay that cushioned her every step. She found it impossible not to keep giggling in a high-pitched ‘squeee’ sort of way, especially when everything around her seemed so hilarious: that squirrel was definitely strutting like Mick Jagger and she was pretty certain the herring gull on the church roof had just screeched ‘Fuck off, Melvin!’ to the gull on the flagpole. Paul decided it would be best to do a couple of laps around the village before reintroducing Annie to society, so that by the time she entered the pub, she was relaxed and rampantly peckish.
‘Hi, Raye,’ Annie called over the bar.
If Annie had had to guess what The Captain’s Bounty’s interior would look like, it would have been exactly this. Strings of multicoloured fabric birds with tiny bells between them hung down the black wooden joists which punctuated the long dark pub. The uneven plaster on the walls was painted a deep Moroccan orange, which burst like a warm sunset between the wonky criss-cross of beams. A visual anthology of Willow Bay’s nautical history decorated the walls: black and white photographs of fishermen past with their boats, sat beside paintings of clipper ships, coastal maps and cottages – some of which Annie recognised from her hazy village tour.
A band was setting up in a cleared space opposite the bar. Raye gave a cheery wave and Annie saw her nudge Aiden conspiratorially. Paul rested his hand in the small of Annie’s back and guided her towards the far end of the pub, to a table for two by the fire. For Annie, a woman sex-starved and mildly stoned, a hand in the small of the back was practically foreplay.
They started the meal with salt and pepper squid that melted in the mouth, and aioli.
‘Oh my God, I’m so ready for this,’ said Annie.
‘That’s called the munchies,’ said Paul, a knowing smile playing at his lips.
‘I am a chef, you know,’ said Annie. ‘I don’t need to be stoned to appreciate good food.’
‘No,’ said Paul. ‘But maybe it takes your appreciation to another level.’
Annie wanted to argue but she was too busy eating to speak. Paul chose beer-battered Dover sole and thrice-fried chips for his main and Annie had pan-fried plaice with hasselback potatoes and samphire. She would have dearly liked to have sampled Aiden’s famous tiramisu but in the event of the evening taking the turn she hoped it would, she didn’t want to be too full of mascarpone to enjoy it.
The throne-like wooden benches on which they sat had high backs and floral motifs had been cut out of the wood, so that the light filtered through them and danced patterns on the table. Annie ran her hand idly over the undulating wood. She saw Paul watching her.
‘You made these,’ she said.
He smiled. Not his cocksure grin but a softer smile.
‘I did,’ he said. ‘The benches and the bar. They’re all me.’
