CHAPTER 15
The narrowboat Lady Braunston chugged its way along the canal, its slow-revving diesel engine beating out a steady rhythm synchronous with puffs of black sooty smoke from its exhaust. It meandered past The Navigation Pub and Restaurant which sat serenely on the canal-side, patiently waiting to welcome the first batch of customers of the day.
It was too early to consider a lunchtime pint, so the old boy holding the tiller on the Lady Braunston would not have given the pub a second glance had his attention not been grabbed by an angry exchange of unintelligible words emanating from the pub. He turned his head to see what the commotion was, but his narrowboat cruised on inexorably, the moment passed, and the sound was lost in the throbbing rhythm of the engine.
The side door of The Navigation flew open and a young blonde woman with a large leather holdall stormed out of the pub, a fierce expression on her face and muttering under her breath. She marched angrily down the path towards the car park, where a black Mercedes Benz was waiting, engine running. Before she got there, a dark-haired woman exited the pub in a similarly frantic fashion and in hot pursuit.
“Katya! Katya! Wait! Katya!” she shouted to the back of the rapidly receding figure in front of her.
“Vas manzel je kreten!” Your husband’s an arsehole! Katya shouted back without turning round or breaking step, thrusting the middle finger of one hand in the air, leaving no doubt as to her attitude to the woman behind her. Trish didn’t speak any Czech so couldn’t fully understand what Katya was saying, but given the furious tone, she could hazard a guess.
Katya wrenched open the car door, threw her bag in, climbed into the passenger seat, and the car sped off without delay. Trish stood for a moment, forlorn and helpless as the car disappeared. Suddenly filled with rage, she about-turned and stomped back into the pub.
Dave was in his usual position behind the bar, flicking through The Sun. He knew what was coming but he wasn’t bothered. It was only ever going to be her word against his, and now she had walked out in a strop there would be no argument about what had happened.
Pity, he thought, she was a looker, that Katya, and he had a thing about Eastern Europeans; their accents and mannerisms appealed to him. He’d been working hard on her for a while but had got a bit impatient by the lack of response, so had decided to escalate matters a little. She’s only playing hard to get, he thought, and they all need the money, so a little enticement can go a long way. It usually worked. Usually.
Unfortunately for him, or perhaps fortunately, he was standing right behind her when she unexpectedly bent over to pick up some rubbish from the floor. He had taken no evasive action and her buttocks had collided with his crotch, so he had to grab her by the waist to steady them both and then had used the opportunity to tell her what a nice arse she had. Big mistake. Ah, well … plenty more fish, he thought, and continued to flick the pages until he got to the sports section, his favourite. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps but declined to look up until his wife had drawn level with him on the opposite side of the bar.
“You tosser!” said Trish with unmistakeable contempt.
Dave swung his head around, looking in vain for the object of his wife’s anger, and then feigned surprise, expertly combining shock, confusion and innocence in one expression.
“Whaaat—?”
“You know very well what,” continued Trish, arms outstretched and rigid on the bar, looking at her husband with visibly rising anger. “You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?” Deny, deny, deny. That’s always the best strategy.
“I didn’t do nothing!” complained Dave, continuing the pretence and looking his wife directly in the eye for effect.
“I know what you’re like, Dave Morley,” she said with exasperation. Dave decided it would save time if he just cut to the chase and got it over with. It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.
“I never touched her,” he said returning his attention to the paper, a hint of truculence in his tone.
“Ah, okay” said Trish, nodding. He had inadvertently opened the door of truth a little, and knowing her as he did, he was certain she would get her toe in and prise it open a bit more. “So, what did you say?”
“Nuffing,” wailed Dave, and then, backtracking a little, “just passing the time of day.” And then, as there was always a little bit of truth in every lie, “complimenting her on her appearance.”
“Here we go,” she said in that superior tone he knew only too well.
“It weren’t nuffing,” Dave assured her with a weary shake of the head, “just a bit of banter.”
“Banter?” she barked back at him
“Yeah – she was just a bit … well, sensitive … no sense of humour, these foreigners,” he huffed, returning to flicking the pages.
“Oh, yeah. I know you and your humorous banter when it comes to young blondes. There’s laws against sexual harassment, you know. You better hope she don’t know what they are,” she continued, jabbing a finger in his direction.
“Don’t get paranoid,” he said. There she goes, overreacting again.
“I’m not paranoid!” she said through clenched teeth. “I’m just sick to death of you and your disgusting little obsessions.”
“Didn’t bother you back in the old days,” said Dave with a satisfied chuckle and a hint of reproach, forgetting that his wife did not like being put on the defensive.
“Yeah, well … back then I was young and impressionable and lovestruck,” – Dave raised his eyebrows as she went on – “and you, were slim, funny and good looking.” He furrowed his brows and his expression turned quizzical.
“And your point is …?”
“Aargh,” said Trish in exasperation. “No time for that, there’s work to do so you’d better get your bloody marigolds on!” And with that, she stormed off into the kitchen.
Dave watched her go with a pained expression. Cleaning? Not on your Nellie. That’s women’s work. He returned his attention to more important matters and flicked back to the racing pages.