TWENTY-EIGHT
‘I’ll have a dry white wine,’ and Mandy continued to look around the Gravediggers Inn, floorboards and sawdust that smelled as recently hewn wood, a florid aroma that outweighed the smell of stale beer, a sort of manly pot-pouri she thought.
‘They only have the ale, Jonas brews himself,’ Mike said.
‘What?’
‘A half for Mandy, Jonas, and a pint for me, please,’ Mike called out. The statuesque man, with chiselled features and black, sunken eyes, responded with a broad smile that softened all the previous edges. Mandy reappraised the man she thought originally to be a gypsy, he was handsome, a veritable Heathcliffe, she thought, and how appropriate, this pub was like stepping back in time as she relished the flutters of s****l attraction; Mike noticed. She frowned at his child
