Relief Valve: The Plumber's Mate, Book 2 Read Online Free Page B

Dyke pub in Brock’s Hollow. It’s a proper old-fashioned country pub, with horse brasses on the walls and signs on the low ceiling beams warning you to “Duck or grouse”. Harry, the landlady, was having a break, perched on a bar stool with her border collie Flossie at her feet and a cup of tea by her elbow. Which was no reflection on the quality of the beer in the place, nor on Harry’s ability to take her drink. She’s a head taller than me and fights at around twice my weight—or at least, she used to; these days she only dusts off her boxing skills on the rare occasions when the customers get rowdy.
    I was a bit late getting to the pub—Mrs. G’s downstairs loo had turned out to be a total bastard—and Gary looked like he was well into his third vodka martini by the time I stuck my head in the door and spotted him at the back of the room.
    Gary managed to simultaneously wave a welcome and roll his eyes at my timekeeping. At least, I hoped it was my timekeeping he had the problem with, although to be honest, I’d had my doubts about the shirt I was wearing when I’d put it on. I made buying-a-pint gestures, followed by can-I-get-you-one-too gestures, and Gary replied with his version of cheers-mate gestures, which consisted of pointing to his martini glass, clapping his hands to his heart and blowing me a kiss.
    Next time, I decided, I’d just go over and ask, and sod the bloody sign language.
    There was a new member of the harem behind the bar. She looked all of fourteen, but I knew Harry wasn’t daft enough to risk her licence by employing someone under age. Even someone as pretty as this girl, who was tiny, bubbly and had a My Little Unicorn tattooed on her shoulder.
    “All right, love? Pint of bitter, please.”
    She smiled, showing off her tongue piercing. “Hopfest, London Porter or Mr. Squirrel?” She had a strong West Country accent.
    I pursed my lips. “Go on then, hit me with the squirrel. You’re new here, aren’t you? I’m Tom.”
    “Marianne. It’s my first day, so be gentle with me. You’re with Gary? He’s lovely, he is.”
    I nodded, then looked at her sideways. “Well, I’m with him, but I’m not with him. He’s a mate. Vodka martini for him, when you’ve finished pulling that pint. Cheers, love.”
    I paid her, then carried the drinks over to Gary’s table and slumped down next to him to take the weight off. Julian, Gary’s St Bernard, looked up briefly, wagged his tail once and shifted so he could start drooling on my leg instead of one belonging to his cuddly campanologist owner. He’s always been free with his favours, Julian has. Whoever it was who said pets resemble their owners had Gary and Julian bang to rights.
    Gary took his drink from me with grabby hands. “ Finally . Darling, I’ve been waiting eons for you. Poor Julian has aged around a decade in dog years. And what on earth are you wearing?”
    I looked down at myself. “Clothes?”
    Gary’s got one of those faces that are somehow way more expressive than your average. Like he’s a caricature of himself or something. Right now he was looking at me like I’d just turned up straight from a stint in a cesspit. “For want of a more descriptive term, perhaps. Where did you get that shirt? Oxfam?”
    “Oi. It was quite expensive, actually. What’s wrong with it?”
    Gary shuddered. “What’s right with it? Darling, it’s shiny , and not in a good, Jake Shears sort of way. And broad stripes went out while you were still in nappies. Which I’d have thought were probably a better look on you.”
    My shoulders slumped. “I thought Phil might like it. He’s always complaining about my old shirts.” Actually, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but there had been one or two pointed suggestions that I might want to get changed before we went out for a drink.
    “Trust me, my dear, if he sees you in this monstrosity he’ll never say another word about your customary pocket-lumberjack look.”
    “Pocket…?