As I lie there in bed it also occurs to me that I haven’t heard a squeak from Mr Tawking since we sorted out the rental contract and I received the keys to Darne Lodge. That was some six weeks ago. Shouldn’t he have been in touch to ask how things were going? Or at least to check that I hadn’t burnt down his house?
All the thoughts and questions have gradually scraped the sluggishness out of my body, and I get up. It’s a quarter past ten. Eight degrees and patches of blue sky here and there. I haul Castor out of bed and tell him he’d better get a grip — a missus shouldn’t need to wake up her dog.
He doesn’t understand what I’m talking about, but a quarter of an hour later we are out on the moor in the sunshine. And so the unhealthy pallor of those worrying thoughts is transformed into the healthy tan of decisiveness.
Two e-mail messages of a certain importance. Or at least, they need an answer. The first is from Bergman to Martin:
Hi! I had dinner with Ronald Scoltock from Faber amp; Faber yesterday evening. We got round to talking about you, and he seemed to be very interested. He would like to get in touch with you, and perhaps even pay you a visit. As I understand it he has a house in Marrakesh. Is it okay if I give him your e-mail address? Keep your nose to the grindstone, I hope all is going as it should. Greetings to your wonderful wife, of course. Eugen
I think it over for a while before replying that we would prefer not to have any visits at the moment, that I (Martin) am in the middle of a spell of very intensive work, and that perhaps it would be best if we were to make contact with Scoltock after the New Year.
The other message is from Violetta di Parma:
Dear Maria, I’m feeling very much at home in your house. It really does feel like a privilege to be able to live here. I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner, but everything has been working as it should, so there has been no reason to contact you. I’m extremely busy as well, but that is stimulating and so I’m not complaining. The only thing I wonder is whether I ought to forward post to you. There has been quite a lot, in fact, and perhaps you ought to take a look at it, to be on the safe side. But I don’t have your address. If you let me know what it is I can send you everything without delay.
A Merry Christmas! There is no snow yet here in Stockholm, but it seems to be in the air. It’s very cold and windy in any case. I hope all is well with you — no doubt it’s much warmer down there where you are!
With best wishes from Violetta
I recall that I had promised to send her our address as soon as we had settled down in Morocco, and that it really was high time I did something about it. There shouldn’t be any invoices to pay in the post that had been delivered to Nynäshamn: we changed everything to direct debits before we left, but of course you never know. . In any case, I must answer her message, and the best response I can come up with is to ask her to forward post to Holinek, poste restante, Rabat. I explain that this is the safest way to proceed, add that we are in fine shape, are pleased that she feels at home in our house, and that we send her our very best wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
I don’t attempt to read any news on this occasion either, and since Margaret Allen seems to be rather busy at her own computer I decide not to take up with her that business of solving the password problem. I merely thank her for the tea, and say that I shall probably call in again before Christmas.
‘Surely you’re not going to spend Christmas all alone up there?’ she asks, looking somewhat worried.
I tell her that I shall probably be going to visit a friend in Ilfracombe, but that in any case I have my dog to keep me company. That makes her smile, and she gives Castor a pat on the head.
‘I’d like to read one of your books, I really would.’
‘If you can hang on for another fifty years, no doubt one of them will appear in English translation.’
We leave Winsford Community Computer Centre, and walk down to the war memorial to collect the car and drive back to Darne Lodge and spruce ourselves up before dinner at Heathercombe Cottage.
Just as we are about to get into the car, a silver-coloured Renault drives past. It turns off to the left at the crossroads, in the direction of Exford and Wheddon Cross. I have time to see the logo saying it is a Sixt rental car, but not to catch the registration number.
And nothing more of the driver than a glimpse of his outline from behind. It is a man, that is quite clear, but that’s about all that can be said.
For a brief moment I toy with the thought of following him, but drop it almost immediately. Instead that vague plan about spinning a yarn to Mark Britton suddenly takes on a new reality.
35
It was Jeremy who opened the door.
He must have been sitting there waiting for us, as I didn’t have time to knock. Quite a slim young man, an inch shorter than me — he had seemed bigger than this when I saw him in that upstairs window.
He looked hard at me with his dark, almost black eyes — a little worried, perhaps, but not threatening as I had feared he might be. The inspection took five seconds. Then he looked down at the floor and took a pace backward so that I could go in. He was wearing black, scruffy jeans, big fluffy slippers and a multicoloured jersey with the name Harlequins embroidered on the chest.
‘That used to be his favourite rugby team,’ explained Mark who appeared in the kitchen doorway.
‘I see. Rugby.’
Used to be? I thought. When he was twelve?
‘Welcome. I think he wants you to shake hands and introduce yourself.’
I did as I was bidden. Jeremy’s hand was cold and dry, and he let go of mine after only a second: but nevertheless I detected something positive in his attitude. A feeling that he was at ease in the situation. That I was okay. Mark placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘You can go up to your room if you like. I’ll give you a shout when the food’s ready.’
Jeremy stood there and seemed to be thinking things over, then turned on his heel and went off upstairs. He had paid no attention to Castor at all, who had been sitting discreetly just inside the door, waiting his turn.
‘Welcome, both of you,’ said Mark and took my jacket. ‘Come into the kitchen and you can have a drink while I finish off the delicacies.’
He smiled, and patted his black apron to illustrate how seriously things were being taken. I thought a drink was exactly what I needed, and followed him along a short corridor that led into a large, cosy kitchen. A dark oak table in front of a mullioned window looked as if it could accommodate at least a dozen people; a fire was burning in a hearth, and it occurred to me that without much in the way of rearrangement one could shoot a cookery programme in here.
I told Mark I thought it looked lovely, and he threw wide his hands. ‘The heart of the house,’ he said. ‘I spent all the money I had on this when I moved in. The rest of the cottage is in nowhere near the same class, I’m afraid; but I’m glad you like it. I’m going to have a gin and tonic. What about you?’
‘A gin and tonic sounds splendid,’ I said, sitting down at one corner of the table. ‘But not too strong — I have to drive home eventually.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Mark. ‘I’ve already taken care of that detail.’
I didn’t ask what he meant by that, presumably because I badly wanted a drink and a few glasses of wine.