#the langs really went ‘how much knife twisting do we want to put into this series?’ and the answer was Yes.

[heir-of-the-chair]

Rewatching Nightmare Time 2. So given that they all take place in the same timeline:

Ted dies during the honey festival after Shiela decides she’s going to get back with Frank and kills him because she no longer has use for him

Pete is away the whole summer at Abstinence Camp under the iron rule (and blade) of Grace Chastity. They’re not even allowed to have their phones.

NMT 2 Ted dies while Pete is away at camp and there’s a very real possibility he doesn’t even learn until he’s back…

[weshallc]

Happy St. Andrew’s Day. 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿

Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading Bonfire Night! I haven’t put it on the usual fic sites as I knew I would mess about, and Tumblr folk are a patient bunch. I am going to rejig it so it stretches from Bonfire Night to Christmas (probably New Year at this rate) looking back over 2020.

Thank you for the lovely comments and support from @h4t08 @fourteen-teacups @thatginchygal  @bbcshipper @roguesnitch @lovetheturners and new regular @aimee-jessica and @olafur-neal

I really don’t know what I have been doing with my time apart from washing my hands, measuring distances of 2 metres, sewing masks, swearing at the news, collecting Scotch egg and pasty recipes and building a pantry to hoard all my Brexshit preparation supplies.

Enough about me, so as it’s St. Andrew’s Day I thought I might give this another spin. 

BERNS NIGHT (Revisited, just for fun)

Call the Midwife AU (Crown Jewels/Paddy and Bernie/Poplar-on-Tweaven)

CHAPTER ONE: FAIR FA’ YOUR HONEST, SONSIE FACE

“Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy o'a grace As lang's my arm.”  Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns 1786.

“Will You Reconize me? Call My Name or Walk On By.” Don’t You (Forget About Me). Simple Minds 1985.

Monday 25th January 2016

“His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich!”

The room was swept in darkness apart from the light of the wolf moon and the north star penetrating the cold window panes. All eyes were facing towards a wooden table and the elderly man stood behind it. He was in his 60s and wiry, small for a man, but with a silver mess of what once must have been a bonnie head of fire red hair. The body may have looked weak, but the intensity in his bright blue eyes cut through the dimly lit surroundings.

As he spoke again, his voice filled the room, cutting through the anticipating silence. It was a voice that could take a knife and slice right through a soul. The knife in his hand in turn sliced through the offering in front of its high priest. Years of performing the same action with such a passion resulted in precision. The faithful entranced by the spectacle all gasped as one as the incision was violently made. No one daring to speak. Suddenly the trance was lost as artificial light rudely brought everyone back to the present with a blast of the pipes.

“All done then, Reverend Mannion? Can I serve the Haggis now? Don’t want it getting cold now, do we, not at £15 a head.”

“Aye, Violet, the ceremony is over. It’s time for eating and drinking, something the bard would have approved of, rightly so.”

The kilted clergyman winked at an auburn-haired girl in the crowd and tipped his whisky tumbler toward her. She raised her own glass and winked back. Her companion at her table was much taller with dark hair styled in a tidy no-nonsense bob.

The tall one leaned toward the small one and asked, “If it’s already dead, why does he have to kill it?”

“What?”

“The Haggis if it’s already dead, why does he have to kill it?”

Her friend opened her mouth to speak, but she saw a tender hand take hold of Chummy’s arm and explain it was all just ceremony, it was tradition.

“Like all that malarkey at our passing out parade, the day we got our badge. That wasn’t about police work, was it? It’s just tradition.  It’s what the English do well.”

He had been doing really well up until then, but a golden raised eyebrow made him alter his stance. “It is what us Brits do best.”

The raised eyebrow whispered to the police constable. ”Peter, Chummy really doesn’t think a haggis is a real animal, does she?”

He was not the sort of man that would turn heads, but he had a kindness in his eyes and an openness in his face she thought some would see as attractive. If only Camilla wasn’t his superior, and they didn’t work such long hours together, what might have been?

She knew her friend well and sensed more queries would follow. Not sure as a Scot brought up on Tweavenside and now living in London she could provide satisfying answers. Picking up their empty glasses and heading to the bar was a strange sort of refuge for a vicar's daughter and inner-city missionary.

There was a queue, well sort of a queue. In London a queue was made up of people standing in an orderly line and the person who had been stood the longest getting served first. In Poplar-on-Tweaven it resembled more of a rugby scrum and the person who shouted the loudest being ignored, Anyone who called the barmaid by name was bunked up the order. She wasn’t familiar with busy bars, but she was bright enough to work out the system.

“Val, when yer ready hen.” The request came from someone not sure that was their own voice they had just heard yelling those words.

All her life she had been immersed in the wonders of the Bible and was still amazed at how so many miracles had been performed. She had heard all the CPR arguments regarding resurrections and all that, and was still not convinced. But, she now knew how Moses had parted the Red Sea, he had known the barmaid’s name was Valerie.

“What can I get you, chick?”

“Here! I was first.” A grumpy voice struck up.

“Oh Al, you are always first. Let me serve this lass and then I will sort you out”

“Promises, promises.”

“Yeah in your dreams, pal.”

She was starting to feel uncomfortable she hadn’t meant to jump the queue. Maybe she should go back to the table and let Peter get the drinks. A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts, it was quieter than Al’s but held an authority. It wasn’t a Tweavenside accent, but it had a northern softness.

“You serve our impatient friend Valerie, I will see to this young lady.” Then turning to his new customer, “What can I get you, pet”

“Erm a whisky and lemonade and erm a pint, please.”

“Which whisky and a pint of?”

She wasn’t sure; she nudged her bottom onto a vacant stool for security.

“Are you with the law?” The tall bartender nodded towards Chummy and Peter,

“Yes, yes, I am.”

“OK, so that’s a Grouse and diet lemonade, just a dash and a pint of Buckles Best and for you?”

He stepped back a minute. “Your Reverend Wilf’s daughter?”

“Yes, I am.” Bernie suddenly felt more sure of herself. She was never completely certain of who she was when back in Poplar.

“Bernadette?” The stranger was grinning now, his brown eyes glinting under the harsh bar spotlights, or were they green?

“Well, that’s my Sunday name most people call me Bernie, even Dad.”

“Well, since I’ve never seen you in here on a Sunday or any other day. I will call you Bernie. I am Patrick Turner, most people call me Paddy, a few Doc.”

“Oh no, you won’t have seen me here on a Sunday or any other day. I live in London now and before that, well, I am not a big drinker.”

“What can I get you then?” asked Paddy loitering near the coke and lemonade pumps.

“A gin and tonic please, better make it a double it’s quite busy, save me coming back.”

Paddy smiled. “Premium gin?”

“Yes.”

While the optic was emptying into the glass, he asked, “You must have known this old place when Evie ran it?”

“Yes, I know Evie and J..Jenny”

“Oh yes. Jen was here when the wife and I took over she was a great help. We get a text every now and again, doing well for herself now, all loved up.” He winked at her as he ended the sentence, causing her to panic slightly.

“I was sorry to hear about your loss.” She wished she hadn’t said it.

Val had seemed to deal with ten customers to Paddy’s one, and now there was just the two of them alone at the bar. He looked at her in a sort of a non-direct, sort of direct way. Under that infuriating fringe she wanted to reach out and push back.

“Loss is as much a part of love as is healing,” he replied with a hint of melancholy, but without irony.

She was stunned and tried to find a corresponding Bible verse, but she drew a blank.

She focused on what was real and what was present. Her dad had taught her to do that. What was in front of her at this precise moment was a glass of gin and ice and a twist of lime. He was now unscrewing a bottle of Mediterranean slimline tonic.

She yelped, “No!” as he lay the bottle alongside the glass.

“Sorry most people add the tonic to the gin and I cannae bear it drowned.”

“Wouldn't dream of it, surely that would be very presumptuous of me.”

“Aye well, most people I've met are very presumptuous.”

“Maybe you have spent too much time in London. if you don't mind me saying, Bernie.”

“Well, to be fair, we don’t spend a lot of time sitting on stools and propping up bars in my part of London.”

“More's the pity.”

“Can I bother you for a...”

Paddy popped a black straw into her tumbler.

“I will make sure when you come home next time none of my staff will be presumptuous.”

“Oh, I doubt you will remember me, Paddy. I only come up to see my Da. I can't imagine you will be seeing much of me in the future, hardly likely that I would ever be considered a regular.”

“Now who is being presumptuous?”

Bernie went to put the straw between her lips but paused, realizing the stranger was still watching her. She suddenly felt uncomfortable. As heat rose in her cheeks. She suddenly felt awkward on the stool, squirming to find some sort of comfortable position. The stranger smiled in a way she could not understand; it wasn’t smug or suggestive, but as if there were sharing a joke, but she wasn’t sure what the joke was.

She hopped off her seat, for a brief moment realizing her arse was in the air and prayed he had altered his gaze. Focusing anywhere but behind the bar, she grabbed her glass and bottle in one hand, put the whisky against her elbow and waist, the pint in her other hand, turned and swiftly moved toward her thirsty friends.

Shelagh Bernadette Mannion don’t you dare look back and see if he is watching you he is recently widowed with a son, Da said. He is, what do they call them now, a bloomer or something like that. God has shown you his path for you and it certainly does not include the Crown Inn, Poplar-on-Tweaven.

He is still watching me, I can feel it.

[jetandthebennies]

Remember

Request- 12 and 13, the reader and Peter are dating, and reader gets taken by HYDRA and is now fighting against Peter/the avengers ( thank you @andy-winchester-67​ the request was so good )

AN- sorry I didn’t fit 12 in, but I hope you enjoy. ps this is really long.

REQUESTS  PROMPTS  MASTERLIST

"Ok, so meet at four and then we can go training, yeah?"

You pulled away from Peters lips, asking him, double checking. Well, more like triple checking, it was a habit to check everything as you knew you were very forgetful at the best of times, and with Peter it was even worse.

With Peter nothing else was important, everything else just seemed to melt away. Anything that had been stressing you out, any worries. He was perfect in your eyes, always there for you even when you were freaking out over some test, he'd help you revise, though usually he'd help you de stress in another way.

"Mm hmm."

He mumbled, trying to press his lips back to yours, but you turned you head so his lips only connected with your cheek.

Peter let out a little groan at your stunt, he was in those moods where he just wanted attention, any kind whether you were playing with his hair or running your fingertips over his arm gently, making a slight massage sensation.

"Peter!"

You pulled his arms off you, so he pulled a small pout, that he knew you couldn't resist, but you had to this time.

"I have to get home, and you need to study."

Falling back on his bed you had been previously sitting on, he said something that was muffled by his pillow covering his mouth. Reaching over, you pulled the pillow pecked him on the lips, making sure that you didn't let Peter pull you in for another.

"But I don't want you to go, I'll miss you too much."

It took a lot for the grin not to take over, biting your gums to stop it.

"Meet you at four, I promise."

Walking out of Peters room, you said goodbye to Aunt May, taking a cookie she offered you. She had always like you, from the second Peter came home talking about the 'pretty girl who sits next to me in Physics'. May took even more of a liking to you when you first met her, the way Peter looked at you made her heart melt, he looked at you as if you were his whole world.

The air was crisp when you walked outside, a typical winter afternoon in New York. You quickly wrapped the scarf, which was a gift from your grandmother, shortly before she passed away a few months ago.

The streets were mainly empty, which was quite unusual for a Saturday. Usually people would be rushing around, either running to work or trying to rush to get food. New York was always busy, but now there was only two or three people lingering around.

At first you didn't think much of it, until the closest person raised his sleeve to his mouth, speaking to a comm. You then noticed how instantly the other two people locked their eyes on you, like a target.

You were outnumbered, and unarmed.

You had no idea who these people were, or which organisation they were working for, but they knew how you were and what you were capable of. They were on edge, you could tell by their body language. Their shoulders rolled back, to make them look bigger and more intimidating.

You couldn’t look scared now, you couldn’t let them have the upper hand, because if you showed weakness for even a slight second, then you would be the one to pay.

The closest man to you began to walk towards you, at a slow pace, but began to speed up at a rapid pace. Not exactly hiding his intentions. But then he walked past you, brushing your shoulders slightly.

Stopping in your tracks, you turned to see the man turn the corner, not looking back at you for a single second. 

It was in the moment when you let your guard down, someone wrapped a cloth around your mouth from behind. Arm wrapped around your neck, not letting you move, and forcing you to breathe the chemicals on the handkerchief.

The last thing you heard before everyone went black was a deep voice, whispering into your ear,

“Hail Hydra.”

It had been six months.

Six months since Peter had seen your face, held your hand, heard your laugh and kissed your lips. The pain of thinking he may never see you again made Peter go slowly insane.

His last thought at night, and first thought in the morning was you. Only you.

It was showing more and more with each passing day, that Peter was allowing your disappearance to eat him up. The fact that you were only outside his apartment block just seconds before you were taken made him feel sick. 

Peter often made up different scenarios where he ran outside, and stopped you being taken, like the hero he was supposed to be. But each scenario just made the pain worse.

Everyone could see he was hurting. You would be an imbecile not to.

Tony tried to help Peter, being the only father like figure he had. So did Natasha, after she took him under her wing shortly after the airport fight. However, neither of them, no matter how hard they tried, could cheer the brown-eyed boy up.

Even Bucky and Sam had tried to help. Despite teasing the boy about being whipped at first, they could see him becoming a ghost of his former happy self, without you by his side.

Today was no different.

Peter sat at the table with the rest of the Avengers, being briefed on the hostage situation they had to sort out. Tapping his pen on the table impatiently just wanting to get out there and do something, as the only time you were off his mind was when he was in that suit, being the hero. The hero he should of been for you.

His tapping stopped when Nat’s hand clasped onto his shoulder, nodding at him as if telling him the meeting was over without speaking.

Not wasting anymore time, Peter ran to get in his suit, carrying his mask in hand not needing to put it on until he got there.

The quinjet was rather cramped, fitting in as many people as possible, not fully knowing who they were dealing with until they got there. It could be small, or big, either way they were prepared for whatever they got.

At least that’s what they thought.

The airport was cold, and pitch black. All the bulbs being shot at, some of they hanging precariously from wires, sparks falling onto the ground. The only light that guided the Avengers through the building, was the light from computer screens or flashlights each of them carried.

The people in the airport weren’t afraid of being loud, they were shouting at one another, but there was one voice that seemed to have authority over the rest.

“Zatknis'!”

Shut up!

It was quite obviously feminine, Peter could tell by the way it was higher than the others he had heard before they’d gone quiet.

“Oni ides'”

They’re here

Peter didn’t recognise the language. It was harsh, and the cold tone of the voice made it sound menacing, it made a shiver run down Peter’s spine.

The shouts had turned into whispers, that got louder as Peter made his way through the waiting area, which was littered with abandoned suitcases. Some had bullet holes through, some had fallen over, then some were perfectly fine.

As the room where the hostages were being kept loomed closer, Peter could see at least fifteen men and a woman, all heavily armed patrolling the people.

“What’s the plan?”

Sam’s voice ran through the intercom, making Peter switch his eyes from the woman that he couldn’t help feel was familiar, to Tony who was opposite him.

“Lang goes in first, take down the closest, then Barnes, Cap and Wilson, Maximoffs keep your distance only engage if necessary. Parker and Nat take down the leader.”

Only a few seconds later, all hell broke loose. Two men who were guarding the entrance falling to the ground, causing the others to raise their weapons higher. 

Cap, Barnes and Sam all ran in. Bullets starting to ricocheting off the walls, Steve’s shield bouncing all over the place as Bucky tried to get as many hostages out as possible.

Pietro began to run round, getting the hostages while Wanda kept her distance redirecting any bullets away from the innocents. Nobody noticed the Maximoff girl, apart from the woman who still remained a mystery, saw the red glow in her eyes illuminate the corner.

She raised her gun and shot Wanda in the arm, making her collapse, and more importantly stop Pietro in his tracks. With the two distracted the found themselves being held at gunpoint.

“Nat, Parker. You’re up.”

They both ran in, Peter swinging up to a pole that ran across the ceiling to keep out of sight.

Nat grabbed the woman from behind, twisting her arm behind her making her give out a little grunt. But it didn’t last for long when she kicked Nat in the knee from behind, twisting round and going to punch her, but Natasha moved just in time.

When she turned it was as if everything froze for `Peter.

It was you. The same as he remembered, at least at first glance. As he carried on watching you fight Nat, he saw your eyes glazed over, no longer kind and forgiving. There were bruises around your wrists, as if you’d been tied down to a chair. Small grazes on your cheeks, your hair matted and knotted.

It was as if you were possessed.

You’d never fought like this before, so brutally. The power you put in to the kicks and punches looked as if you wanted Nat dead, the person you considered one of your closest friends.

Peter was snapped out of his trance when you knocked Nat from under her feet, then rose your hand which held a knife over her, about to plunge into her chest. Peter jumped off the pole, swinging from a piece of web he’d attached to the ceiling, kicking you in the chest and sending you flying across the room.

He had to do it, you weren’t you. He didn’t know what had happened, but he had to stop you from doing something you would regret.

The knife was still tightly wrapped in your fist as you got up. Glaring at the masked Peter you swiped at him. Trying to harm him in any way.

It didn’t matter that he was the love of your life six months ago, in the past six months of constant torture, pain, and constant mind wipes you would’t be able to recognise your own mother.

“Stop, Y/N!”

Peter shouted, his voice echoing through coms, catching everyones attention. They quickly finished their fights leading the rest of the hostages out, and continued to watch the fight between you and Peter.

It wasn’t really a fight though, you were kicking, punching and lunging at Peter with every chance. He was just defending himself. Making no advances in harming you in any way.

He shot web at your right leg, knowing it was your weakest, and pulled you closer. Then shooting two more at your arms, pinning you to the ground.

“Y/N, stop, it’s me!”

The next words broke Peters heart entirely.

“I don’t know you.”

Slipping from underneath the web, you kicked Peter in the chin. He fell back slightly, his hand touching something familiar, and he decided he needed to do something drastic.

Picking up the gun, he pointed it at you, his hands shaking with hesitation. You however were taking it in your stride as if it had happened a thousand times before.

“Remember me, That’s all I’m asking you to do!”

Peter didn’t care how desperate he sounded, he didn’t care that there were a dozen other people in the room, he didn’t care about anything other than you.

“Put the gun down or I shoot.”

One of the men who was thought to be knocked out clean, spoke up from the floor, a handgun pointed at Peter. But his eyes never moved from you.

Peter used the hand that wasn’t hovering over the trigger, to pull his mask off, before softly muttering,

“I love you.”

Peter couldn’t really remember how the next chain of events happened, it was a sort of blur.

Your eyes softening, and your body relaxing from the defensive stance. Then you shouting his name at the top of your lungs, mixed in with the shallow sound of a bullet being fired.

You ran towards Peter, knocking him onto the floor then ducking yourself, but not quick enough to doge the bullet. 

The feeling was strange. You could feel the cold metal fly into your stomach, sending you to the ground with it impact. It was as if everything was heightened, you could feel the blood escape from the wound, you could hear everyone shouting.

Tony was calling for the medics, Natasha running over to the man who shot you beating him to a pulp. Sam, Bucky and Lang trying to put pressure on the wound as Cap tried to find a first aid kit with the help of the Maximoffs.

Peter just sat there, unable to move. Just watching your body because weaker and weaker by the second. The blood staining your clothes and skin at the same time.

“Peter!”

Bucky yelled the boy.

“Hold her head, keep her awake, we can’t lose her now!”

Shuffling closer Peter picked your head up and placed it on his lap. He ran his gloved hands through your hair, like you used to do it him. 

You could see the worry written across his face, how his forehead was creased and brows furrowed. Even the tears gathering in his eyes as he knew there was little chance you’d get out of this alive, with the rate you were losing blood.

“It’s going to be ok.”

Your voice was raspy, anther eyes showed the pain she felt within. Yet, she still had a smile on her face, in an attempt to reassure him.

Peter smiled back, letting the tears fall down. He had his Y/N back, but he knew not for long, so he needed to treasure these last few moments with you.

“Yeah, it’ll be ok.”

Sam, Bucky and Scott all backed away, letting you and Peter have your moment together, without them interfering.

“I love you too, Peter Parker.”

Your eyes shut, and the last tears fell. Your breath stopped, your entire body falling limp in Peters arms.

He cradled your lifeless body, crying into your neck, begging you to wake up and tell him the last six months was all a big prank. But you were gone and there as nothing he could do to bring you back.

PERMANENT TAGS

@bucky-with-the-metal-arm @johnmurphys-sass @bxckytrxsh @princess-scamander @tmrhollandkay

[weshallc]

Berns Night.

So we’ve had a lot of birthdays @thatginchygal @rahleeyah @wednesdaygilfillian (sorry I missed that one) @roguesnitch coming up and @ilovemushystuff is celebrating too! and @h4t08 finally joined Tumblr and @clonethemidwife has returned and there are lots of new folk. Sooo I felt like throwing a party and there ain’t nothing like a Crown Inn party!!!!

This was supposed to be a Crown Stoppy Back but had other ideas so I will post the first chapter tonight as people are still recovering from Burns Night. Don’t worry if you are not familiar with the Burns Night traditions they will be explained more in chapter two. Probably 3 in all. We shall see as they say!

As always, I would be lost without @lovetheturners endless patience and thanks to @roguesnitch for encoraging me. This is dedicated to the most bonniest of lads I hope you had a great birthday and Burns Night with the Bard himself this year😉😘🤗 

CHAPTER ONE: FAIR FA’ YOUR HONEST, SONSIE FACE

“Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o' the pudding-race! Aboon them a' ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm : Weel are ye wordy o'a grace As lang's my arm.”  Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns 1786.

Monday 25th January 2016

“His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up wi' ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin', rich!”

The room was swept in darkness apart from the light of the wolf moon and the north star penetrating the cold window panes. All eyes were facing towards a wooden table and the elderly man stood behind it. He was in his 60s and wiry, small for a man, but with a silver mess of what once must have been a bonnie head of fire red hair. The body may have looked weak, but the intensity in his bright blue eyes cut through the dimly lit surroundings.

As he spoke again, his voice filled the room, cut through the anticipating silence. It was a voice that could take a knife and slice right through a soul. The knife in his hand in turn sliced through the offering in front of its high priest. Years of performing the same action with such a passion resulted in precision. The faithful entranced by the spectacle all gasped as one as the incision was violently made. No one daring to speak. Suddenly the trance was lost as artificial light rudely brought everyone back to the present with a blast of the pipes.

“All done then Reverend Mannion? Can I serve the Haggis now? Don’t want it getting cold now do we, not at £15 a head.”

“Aye, Violet the ceremony is over, it’s time for eating and drinking something the bard would have approved of, rightly so.”

The kilted clergyman winked at an auburn-haired girl in the crowd and tipped his whisky tumbler toward her. She raised her own glass and winked back. Her companion at her table was much taller with dark hair styled in a tidy no-nonsense bob.

The tall one leaned toward the small one and asked, “If it’s already dead, why does he have to kill it?”

“What?”

“The Haggis if it’s already dead why does he have to kill it?”

Her friend opened her mouth to speak, but she saw a tender hand take hold of Chummy’s arm and explain it was all just ceremony, it was tradition.

“Like all that malarkey at our passing out parade, the day we got our badge. That wasn’t about police work, was it? It’s just tradition.  It’s what the English do well.”

He had been doing really well up until then, but a golden raised eyebrow made him alter his stance. “It is what us Brits do best.”

The raised eyebrow whispered to the police constable. ”Peter, Chummy really doesn’t think a haggis is a real animal, does she?”

He was not the kind of man that would turn heads, but he had a kindness in his eyes and an openness in his face that she thought some would see as attractive. If only Camilla wasn’t his superior, and they didn’t work such long hours together, what might have been?

She knew her friend well and sensed more queries would follow. Not sure as a Scot brought up on Tweavenside and now living in London she could provide satisfying answers. Picking up their empty glasses and heading to the bar was a strange sort of refuge for a vicar's daughter and inner-city missionary.

There was a queue well sort of a queue. In London a queue was made up of people standing in an orderly line and the person who had been stood the longest getting served first. In Poplar-on-Tweaven it resembled more of a rugby scrum and the person who shouted the loudest being ignored and anyone who called the barmaid by name being bunked up the order. She wasn’t familiar with busy bars but she was bright enough to work out the system.

“Val, when yer ready hen.” The request came from someone not sure that was their own voice they had just heard yelling those words.

All her life she had been immersed in the wonders of the Bible and was still amazed at how so many miracles had been performed. She had heard all the CPR arguments regarding resurrections and all that, and was still not convinced. But she now knew how Moses had parted the Red Sea, he had known the barmaid’s name was Valerie.

“What can I get you, chick?”

“Here! I was first.” A grumpy voice struck up.

“Oh Al, you are always first. Let me serve this lass and then I will sort you out”

“Promises, promises.”

“Yeah in your dreams, pal.”

She was starting to feel uncomfortable she hadn’t meant to jump the queue. Maybe she should go back to the table and let Peter get the drinks. A man’s voice interrupted her thoughts, it was quieter than Al’s but held an authority. It wasn’t a Tweavenside accent, but it had a northern softness.

“You serve our impatient friend Valerie, I will see to this young lady.” Then turning to his new customer, “What can I get you, pet”

“Erm a whisky and lemonade and erm a pint, please.”

“Which whisky and a pint of?”

She wasn’t sure; she nudged her bottom onto a vacant stool for security.

“Are you with the law?” The tall bartender nodded towards Chummy and Peter,

“Yes, yes I am.”

“OK, so that’s a Grouse and diet lemonade, just a dash and a pint of Buckles Best

and for you?”

He stepped back a minute. “Your Reverend Wilf’s daughter?”

“Yes, I am.” Bernie suddenly felt more sure of herself. She was never completely certain of who she was when back in Poplar

“Bernadette?” The stranger was grinning now, his brown eyes glinting under the harsh bar spotlights, or were they green?

“Well, that’s my Sunday name most people call me Bernie, even Dad.”

“Well, since I’ve never seen you in here on a Sunday or any other day. I will call you Bernie. I am Patrick Turner, most people call me Paddy, a few Doc.”

“Oh no, you won’t have seen me here on a Sunday or any other day. I live in London now and before that, well I am not a big drinker.”

“What can I get you then?” asked Paddy loitering near the coke and lemonade pumps.

“A gin and tonic please, better make it a double it’s quite busy, save me coming back.”

Paddy smiled. “Premium gin?”

“Yes.”

While the optic was emptying into the glass, he asked, “You must have known this old place when Evie ran it?”

“Yes, I know Evie and J..Jenny”

“Oh yes. Jen was here when me and the wife took over she was a great help. We get a text every now and again, doing well for herself now all loved up.” He winked at her as he ended the sentence causing her to panic slightly.

“I was sorry to hear about your loss.” She wished she hadn’t said it.

Val had seemed to deal with ten customers to Paddy’s one and now there was just the two of them alone at the bar. He looked at her in a sort of a non-direct, sort of direct way, under that infuriating fringe she wanted to reach out and push back.

“Loss is as much a part of love as is healing,” he replied with a hint of melancholy but without irony.

She was stunned and tried to find a corresponding Bible verse, but she drew a blank.

She focused on what was real and what was present, her dad had taught her to do that. What was in front of her at this precise moment was a glass of gin and ice and a twist of lime. He was now unscrewing a bottle of Mediterranean slimline tonic.

She yelped, “No!” as he lay the bottle alongside the glass.

“Sorry most people add the tonic to the gin and I cannae bear it drowned.”

“Wouldn't dream of it surely that would be very presumptuous of me.”

“Aye well, most people I've met are very presumptuous.”

“Maybe you have spent too much time in London. if you don't mind me saying, Bernie.”

“Well, to be fair we don’t spend a lot of time sitting on stools and propping up bars in my part of London.”

“More's the pity.”

“Can I bother you for a...”

Paddy popped a black straw into her tumbler.

“I will make sure when you come home next time none of my staff will be presumptuous.”

“Oh, I doubt you will remember me, Paddy. I only come up to see my Da. I can't imagine you will be seeing much of me in the future, hardly likely that I would ever be considered a regular.”

“Now who is being presumptuous?”

Bernie went to put the straw between her lips but paused, realizing the stranger was still watching her. She suddenly felt uncomfortable. As heat rose in her cheeks and she suddenly felt awkward on the stool, squirming to find some sort of comfortable position. The stranger smiled in a way she could not understand; it wasn’t smug or suggestive, but as if there were sharing a joke, but she wasn’t sure what the joke was.

She hopped off her seat, for a brief moment realizing her arse was in the air and prayed he had altered his gaze. Focusing anywhere but behind the bar she grabbed her glass and bottle in one hand, put the whisky against her elbow and waist, the pint in her other hand, turned and swiftly moved toward her thirsty friends.

Shelagh Bernadette Mannion don’t you dare look back and see if he is watching you he is recently widowed with a son, Da said. He is, what do they call them now, a bloomer or something like that. God has shown you his path for you and it certainly does not include the Crown Inn, Poplar-on-Tweaven.

He is still watching me, I can feel it.