Out beyond the viaduct, and through the evening gloom, I can see that night has paused on the horizon. In a minute I’ll get up out of this chair and pull the curtains. Weston is simply not the place that I hoped I might be retiring to. I suppose I knew this yesterday when the policeman and policewoman came to tell me about Solomon as though they were enquiring about an unpaid parking ticket. And then there was poor confused Carla, who was obviously terrified of the boyfriend who’d been doing Lord only knows what with her for the past few months. I listen to the birds singing as the day finally begins to fade behind the viaduct. I turn Solomon lightly over in my mind. Maybe I should visit the small stone church and say some kind of a prayer for my friend? And then one final trip to town to put flowers on Mum and Dad’s grave? And then what? Off to some tropical place to tell Solomon’s family? And then? Back here and live with Sheila by the seaside? If I mention Sheila to Dr. Williams he only gets annoyed, so it’s perhaps best to say nothing further to him on this topic. Maybe Sheila and I can go abroad together. For the first time I want to leave England. To see Spain or Italy. England has changed.
I decide to take Carla’s boyfriend’s letter to the pub. I have to do something because I don’t want it in the house with me for another night. After I’ve had breakfast, I put on my jacket, but then I realise that it’s still too early. So I sit with my jacket all buttoned up, and with my handbag on my lap, and I wait until just before eleven. Then I get up and go out. It is a nice morning. I double-lock the door behind me. Strange really, because I only used to do that when I lived in town, and then only when I was going away for any length of time. Here, at Stoneleigh, there doesn’t seem to be any reason to double-lock. This is a residential area, and I don’t get the idea that we’re in any danger of being broken into. There’s also a night-watchman and so it has never occurred to me to double-lock. But maybe that’s it. We don’t have a night-watchman any more.
As I walk down the hill I realise that I’ve been foolish because instead of just sitting in the house for three hours staring into mid-air, I could have gone for a walk. That would have been the sensible thing to do. Get some exercise, or do some shopping, but I’ve already failed to make proper use of this day. There is an early autumn chill in the air, and I can tell that winter is just around the corner waiting to pounce. There won’t be many more days like this and so there’s something sinful about having wasted the better part of the morning. At the bottom of the hill I see a few of the villagers, but I ignore them. Especially now, after what they’ve done. I stop at the main road and wait for the traffic to clear. It looks to me like it might take for ever as the cars and lorries are streaming by in both directions. I feel uncomfortable standing helplessly where everybody can see me, and I think about just dashing out into the road and making them stop for me. But I know that I’m just being silly. I’ll have to wait like everybody else.
I am the first one into The Waterman’s Arms. I knew I would be, for it is only a few minutes past eleven. I shut the door behind me and walk the few paces to the bar. There is no sign of the landlord, but I can hear voices. Somebody is around. In fact, somebody has to have drawn back the curtains and unbolted the door. My guess is that the landlord was simply not expecting anybody this early so he’s gone round the back to finish off some chores. Fair enough, I think, I’ll wait. There’s a bell, but I don’t want to sound it off like I’m in a hurry, or annoyed, so I sit on a stool and stare out of the window. I don’t know how long I’ve been staring, but it seems like ages before I hear the landlord’s voice. At first he frightens me, and then I turn and see him smiling at me from behind the bar. He’s caught me by surprise, but I’ve also caught him by surprise for he’s still doing up his tie.
“Well, you’re keen, aren’t you?”
“Good morning.” I hope this will put him in his place. After all, if he’s going to wear a collar and tie, he can at least make the effort to conduct himself as though he’s familiar with the type of behaviour that generally goes with civilised dress. He seems a bit taken aback that I’ve chastised him, but I can see that he’s also keen to pretend that he hasn’t been scolded. No doubt this better suits his ego.
“And it’s a blooming nice morning at that. What’ll you have? Your usual?”
“I’ll have a half-pint of Guinness, please.”
He’s already pulling the half-pint from the pump, but he stops for a moment and looks puzzled. Then he continues. However, it is his own fault for being too familiar. He ought to know his place. He hands me the small glass of Guinness, and I hand him a five-pound note and then smile sweetly when he produces my change.
“There you are, love.”
I’m sure he assumes that I’m going to sit with him at the bar, but I take the money and the drink and I walk to a small table by a window where I turn side-on to him so that when I look up there can be no accidental eye contact. For a few minutes I can hear him tidying up around the bar, but the truth is there isn’t really any tidying up to be done. He’s only just opened up and everything is in order. He’s just embarrassed that I’ve walked away from him, but he can’t pick a fight with a middle-aged lady. I let him stew for a while and then I hear his voice, which is somewhat less assertive than usual.
“I’ll just be out back finishing off a few things.”
I turn and look at him, as though shocked to discover that he is still present. And then I smile, as I might smile at a pupil, just to let him know that he is dismissed now.
I don’t really want the beer. As soon as he goes through to the back I push it away from me. I want to do what I have to do, and then go before anybody else comes in. I stand up and walk over to the small notice board. Aside from a small postcard-size piece of paper asking for volunteers for the village rugby team, there is nothing else pinned up. I take the envelope from my handbag, slip the letter out, open it up, and then I take a drawing pin from the bottom left-hand corner of the rugby notice and pin the abusive letter into place. I’ve “mailed” it back to them. I don’t need it in my house, for it doesn’t belong there. They can have it back.
Once I reach the top of the hill I walk straight past my house and towards Solomon’s bungalow. It is actually getting warm now and so I slip off my jacket. When I get to the bungalow I stop and stare at it. I think about what secrets I might find inside, were I to sneak in and rummage around. The one time that I visited Solomon, I saw nothing which gave me a clue about his past or his present. Besides, that is, the photograph of the Englishman on the mantelpiece. I don’t even know what Solomon liked. Except, of course, his precious car, which still stands in the driveway. I put down my bag, then scrunch my jacket up into a ball. The least I can do for him is to polish it. It’s getting dusty and Solomon would never have let it deteriorate into such a state. And so I start to polish his car, but I try to copy the way that he used to do it. All careful, with small circular movements like you’re gently stirring a bowl of soup.