Page 78 of The Cocktail Bar

Chapter Thirty-Eight

ALICE

It was do-able, just about.

Hell, who was she trying to convince? It was terrible, the days stretching out painfully before her, a long straight road of nothingness separating a desolate Australian bush, somehow turning into weeks of civility, pleasantries and the odd furtive glance. She was in a catch twenty-two which she’d pretty much brought upon herself in one way and yet hadn’t in another.

She got by at work. That was the easy part, particularly since Georgina had apparently left, paving the way for Lee and his increasing appearances, as well as his genuine kindness which offered a most welcome buffer between herself and River. And then of course there were the customers – and heaps of them these days, making for welcome opportunities for banter and general busyness, sweeping her along from daylight to sundown.

But there was no escaping the fact that she had to start making a Plan B, and whilst she was no longer prepared to keep running away, knowing full well her problems only trailed behind her like the wedding dress she’d now probably never wear, she was also no longer prepared to keep living in limbo. The dream was to get back to her beloved horses, no matter how low down in the pecking order that might place her. Sure, she had rich contacts from the past, buddies living in Cheltenham and its bordering villages who could give her green card to the upper echelons of the racing world. But she wanted to do things by merit this time, privilege having turned out not to be all that it was billed as.

And so her evenings were spent in her bedroom in the caravan, putting green biro loops around interesting classifieds in horsey magazines, making phone calls, adding up finances; a trot here, a canter there in the right direction of her new calling. But it would have to be February, and of course any day but a certain Saint’s. Her last January departure for pastures new hadn’t exactly gone to plan, so February had a better feel to it. And for some inexplicable reason she was strangely feeling drawn to the toe of the kingdom.

Cornwall, why not?

There was something refreshing about the Cornish, after all; their other-worldliness, their strength of character, their up-keeping of tradition, and their pride in their Celtic roots. Glastonbury would always be home. But alas, she had lost her sparkle as a nest. Rather she’d been a wellspring, a fountain, a cauldron of fresh ideas and inspiration; a metaphor in many ways for the magical things that were happening to the customers of River’s bar – in other words, everybody else except Alice.

Yes, that’s what coming back had taught her. Phase one of being Alice was to experience Wonderland. Phase two was to give back for the riches she’d received, to workonthe land.