Trestle

Chapter 19 - The Olive Branch

Chapter 19
Thursday 19th September, 2024
The Castle Inn, Crockenhill, London

He tries calling eight times before Faye decides to pick up.
Angel: Remind me to call someone else if I'm ever dying.
Faye: Are you dying?
Angel: Only of boredom from listening to your answering machine.
Faye: What do you want? I'm busy zapping the hairs off my legs.
Angel: Do your hideous moustache whilst you're at it. I need you or Josie to open up for me, we're still clearing out The Castle.
Reluctantly, Faye agrees and hangs up, before bellowing for her younger sister.
She fingers her top lip in panic.
Faye: Do I really have a moustache?

Kit: I can walk back over if they're too busy?
Angel shakes his head and pockets his phone.
Angel: I need you here, to help me chuck this lot into my car. It won't fit in the skip and the floor is getting laid tomorrow.
Kit: Can Stassi not open up?
Angel shakes his head.
Angel: My mum hasn't stepped foot behind the bar since dad died. I won't let Zola – her measures are deadly. Harriet's busy with Greta, which leaves Faye and Josie. Let them pull their fingers out.
Kit: How is Josie doing?
Angel: Better. But the sooner this looks like The Pear Tree, the sooner she can forget about The Castle Inn - and its dead staff.

Angel puts his hands on his hips and empties his lungs with a heavy, exaggerated blow. So far today, he's torn his Moncler sweatpants on a rogue nail in the wall, and he put his cap down somewhere twenty minutes ago – though only God knows where. But after three days of ripping, tipping, painting, waiting, despairing and swearing, the Castle Inn is finally ready for the majolica tiles fitting in the morning; Angel can almost smell The Pear Tree.

Kit takes a dust sheet to line the back seats of Angel's Mercedes and Angel begins dismantling the final bar stool, trying not to think about its history of arses. He puts a Marlboro Red between his lips and pat's his pockets, searching for his lighter; no luck.
Angel: It's probably in the same place as my fucking hat.

He is about to tuck his cigarette behind his ear when a naked flame bounces in front of his face, cupped by a delicate hand - Maura's delicate hand.
Angel looks all over her face to check for signs that she might drop her lighter into his lap, not that he would blame her, and decides that he is safe. She isn't scowling, but she is chewing her bottom lip, like she is concealing something important.
During his inspection, he notices that she has black patches of engine ash smudged under her chin and across her neck, and her navy overalls are stained with oil. Angel is obsessed with this woman's unpretentiousness, and the things he would do to get her into something red and lacy are unspeakable. But he things he'd do to get her out of them? Absolutely disgusting.

He leans forward, eyes locked onto hers, and sucks his cheeks together. A wispy white cloud separates them both and Angel turns his head to the side to blow the smoke from his mouth in a different direction - almost gentlemanly. He nods his head in thanks, and licks the back of his teeth, trying to work out what foul play her pleasantries are masking.

Kit: Hi stranger! I didn't know you were coming?
Angel: I wish she was.
Kit: Ah, I see someone's started smoking again.
Maura puts her lighter away and gives Kit a kiss on his stubbled cheek, telling him that she needs some kind of outlet for stress relief. She then waves a brown paper takeaway bag towards him and smiles a loving smile, one that Angel has never been on the receiving end of, to his dismay.
Kit instantly forgives her relapse and clutches his heart in appreciation. He beckons her to follow him into the kitchen where they can eat dinner together on a piece of furniture that hasn't yet played victim to Angel's savage screwdriver.
She turns to face Angel as he proceeds to pick up his tools.
Maura: Have you eaten anything other than nicotine?
He looks up at her in complete and utter shock, winded by Maura's second friendly gesture in less than five minutes. He feels as though he's entered an alternative universe and her 'kill-him-with-kindness' facade is unnerving.
Angel: I didn't know you cared.
Maura: I couldn't care less. Do you want something or not? I'm not eating cold food because you're busy failing to flirt.
Angel couldn't tell Maura what he really wanted from her, because it was probably illegal in at least ten countries.
Angel: Is it poisoned?
Maura: Only a little bit.
She smiles faintly. Not lovingly, but faintly, and he'll take it.

Maura scrunches up her bao bun wrapper into a tight ball and throws it playfully at Kit. She misses spending her evenings with him – it's awfully quiet around the dinner table with Norris, who practically lives on mute.
Maura: I've never seen someone inhale gyoza so fast.
Kit: I hadn't eaten since breakfast. But now I'm stuffed and I need a lie down.
Kit stretches backwards in his chair and holds his gut, emphasising the uncomfortable bloat of twelve gyoza pieces and a hoisin duck boa bun.

Angel puts his wooden chopsticks down on top of an empty sushi tray.
Angel: Not until we've emptied that car.
Kit: Yes boss.
Kit closes his eyes and mimics a snore – Angel, happily satiated and feeling all cute and flowery from Maura's contagious friendliness, allows the sarcasm to slip through his high-and-mighty net, on this occasion.
Maura: Is there anything I can help with?
Angel looks between Kit and Maura. Maura is looking at Kit, but Kit looks at Angel to answer.
Angel: Suppose you could bring a car full to the scrapyard – saves us doing two trips. Thanks.
Maura: You're welcome.
She keeps her eyes fixed on Kit, letting Angel know that the favour is for him and him alone – she will do anything to lessen his load, and to shorten his sentence.
They sit in silence for a few minutes, bar Kit's gurgling stomach, and brace themselves for one final push of graft.

Maura's car groans under the weight of the rubble as Kit swings a final heavy-duty sack onto the passenger seat and scratches his head – you couldn't fit an oxo cube in this car now.
Kit: Where the fuck am I supposed to sit?
Maura wraps her arms around him and squeezes him tightly. She tells him she's carried the heavy burden of being the funny, good-looking child for years, and she's sure can lift a few bags of crap into a dumpster without him.
Grateful for the ever-lasting support, and admittedly eager to crawl into bed, Kit obliges and hugs her back, so much harder. The smell of engine flush in her hair is comforting, and teleports him back to a simpler time. The knot in his stomach, disguised as indigestion, tells him he misses it. Not all of it. But some of it.

Maura follows Angel's Mercedes up the road and watches in her rear view mirror as Kit disappears inside.
Maura: Sweet dreams, little brother.