Whispers in the Village by Rebecca Shaw Page A

him before.’
    Dean turned … and saw Paddy. ‘He’s staying at the rectory.’
    ‘Yer what? Are you sure?’
    ‘Absolutely. I saw him with her in the new coffee shop in Culworth this morning.’
    ‘Looks the wrong kind of chap for the rectory. Is it her brother or something?’
    ‘No, an old friend.’ Dean could have rushed across, dragged him to his feet and booted him out of the door and into the road, like he’d seen Bryn do with a disruptive punter in the old days. Willingly, gladly, with pleasure. But there was nothing disruptive about Paddy. He was quietly drinking his pint and talking animatedly to Jimmy, who was only half listening by the looks of it.
    ‘Well, I don’t reckon much to her friends if he’s a sample. Looks like a sponger to me. Well, he’d better not try to get a pint out of me, because he won’t.’
    ‘Nor me.’ Dean turned his back so Paddy wasn’t in full view and wouldn’t anger him quite so much. But his image was still there in his mind and Rhett wouldn’t let the matter drop.
    ‘He’s the sort who thinks the world owes him a living. He’ll think that I’m obliged to treat him because I’m in employment, even though I earn peanuts. He doesn’t look too ill to work, does he?’
    Dean didn’t answer.
    ‘Does he? Have you gone deaf ?’
    ‘No, just thinking. I don’t believe Anna would give him shelter if he wasn’t a worthwhile person.’ Out of the corner of his mouth Dean muttered, ‘Aye! He’s coming across for another pint. Drink up, let’s be off.’
    They skidaddled out as fast as they could, leaving Dicky to serve Paddy with no one available to pay for his second pint.
    He asked for the same again, complimenting Dicky on the quality of his special brew. ‘Absolutely excellent, best pint I’ve had in years. Ah! Just a minute, would you believe it? I’ve left my wallet at home. Paid you with small change for the first one, didn’t realize I hadn’t picked up my wallet. Can you put it on the slate and I’ll pay what I owe next time I’m in?’
    ‘Of course. What name shall I put?’
    ‘Put it down to the rectory. That’s where I’m staying at the moment. I’m so sorry, really very sorry.’
    ‘Oh, that’s all right, easy done,’ said Dicky. ‘The rectory is as good a reference as any. There we are.’ He pointed at Paddy’s glass of beer. ‘We call it Georgie’s Special Brew after my dear wife.’
    ‘What a tribute! She’s called Georgina, is she?’
    ‘That’s right. ’cept she always gets Georgie.’
    ‘Pretty name. Pretty village, too, you know. Lovely people.’
    ‘Some is and some ain’t, as you might say.’ Paddy raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Oh?’ Dicky laughed. ‘No names, no packdrill.’ Paddy shifted a little and put a foot comfortably on the footrail, resting his forearms on the bar. ‘Any casual work going anywhere, do you think?’
    Dicky shook his head. ‘Not that I know of, though sometimes there’s casual work at the Big House, picking peaches, I shouldn’t wonder, this time of year. You could try there Monday. You’ll need to ask Michelle Jones – she’s head gardener now. But she won’t stand any nonsense. Nice as pie in here, but once she gets her overalls on and them secter things in her hand she’s a different woman, and she’s only a slip of a girl really.’
    Paddy grinned. ‘Sounds too much like hard work for me. Anyway, I might give it a whirl. That chap I’ve been talking to sitting on the settle – what does he do for a living?’
    ‘Jimmy? He’s a taxi driver. Sorry, someone to serve.’ Dicky turned away, glad not to be free to give this chap a general run-down on the village and its inhabitants. He wondered why he didn’t quite take to him.
    Someone sitting the far side of the bar beyond the fireplace was whispering very quietly, ‘See that chap at the bar? I saw him begging in the market this afternoon.’
    ‘Begging? You never. You must be mistaken.’
    ‘I’m not. It’s him.