was listening intently.
“I’m no ghost, Robbie.”
“No, you’re here all right. Flesh and blood. An exotic thing, like one of those barnacles on a freighter in the harbor at Southampton that comes here from some foreign sea and detaches itself and finds an easy home.”
“You think of me as a foreign barnacle?”
“No, Jack, I think of you as someone who has spiced up our lives, brought a bit of pepper to the stew. Stay on through Saturday night, Jack. We’ll go to the pub and you’ll see what village life is really like!”
He rose and went to the cupboard, brought down the bottle of scotch and said, “A nightcap. Maggie, how about you?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll take Terry up to bed, read him a story. You two can sit here and get pissed by yourselves.”
Robbie and I shared half the bottle, and when I went upstairs I was woozy, falling asleep immediately.
16.
I awoke to the sound of rain. It drummed steadily on the roof and the window and then there was the noise of the Land Rover engine starting. My head felt delicate and I didn’t feel like eating. What I wanted was a cup of coffee and I debated whether or not I should go downstairs and ask Maggie to make one for me. I got dressed, sat at the laptop and I pulled up the paragraphs I had written about Maggie, our walk, the Strykers in the pub, trolling down the screen, looking for something to stitch them together into some sort of relationship, trying to find a story that would link them, as if they were patches I could make into a quilt if only I could find the design. I didn’t hear Maggie and was startled to look up and see her in the doorway, holding two mugs of tea.
“Here, Jack Stone,” she said, holding out one of them. “Time for a break from your opus.”
I took the mug, set it on the table next to the laptop. When I turned back she was leaning in the doorway, watching me. She said nothing, simply looked, and I waited, wondering what she was thinking. Then she spoke:
“You’re a watcher, Jack Stone. A looker. That first evening you were here you were watching me, and the afternoon when you were pretending to write with Terry and at tea every evening. Even when you’re talking with Robbie I can feel your eyes on me, and I’m wondering what you’re looking at. What do you see in me that holds your attention, Jack Stone?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. She had caught me by surprise.
“Out with it,” she said. “You’re a big boy. What is it that you’re looking at so intently?”
She still leaned against the door jamb, raising the mug of tea to her lips and sipping at it, but her eyes never left mine.
“Am I that obvious?” I asked.
“Not to Robbie. Or Terry. But I can feel you watching me even when I’m not looking at you, and I’m wondering what you see in a Dorset farm wife in an old jumper and a raggedy skirt. Come on, mister writer, give me some words.”
I took a deep breath. “I watch the way your neck rises from your shoulders and the way you move barefoot across the floor and I try to memorize the way you move so I can come up here and write it down.”
“It’s all just fodder for your story?”
“There is no story.”
“There is no story? You mean all that stuff about your rubbish assignment was just a lie? You’re not really a writer, you’re a spy from the tourist board come to see if we treat our guests right?”
“No, I’m a writer. I’ve told you all about that. But now I have no story, just fragments. Bits and pieces. I’m hoping that something will happen to me, and it will all fall into place.”
“So, I’m bits and pieces, am I? And what else do you see?”
“You’re a remarkable woman. I wish I were twenty years younger.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Jack Stone. And that twenty years older rubbish isn’t becoming.” She had raised one hand to the nape of her neck and was absently braiding her hair with her thumb and forefinger again. “You’ve a quiet manner
“I’m no ghost, Robbie.”
“No, you’re here all right. Flesh and blood. An exotic thing, like one of those barnacles on a freighter in the harbor at Southampton that comes here from some foreign sea and detaches itself and finds an easy home.”
“You think of me as a foreign barnacle?”
“No, Jack, I think of you as someone who has spiced up our lives, brought a bit of pepper to the stew. Stay on through Saturday night, Jack. We’ll go to the pub and you’ll see what village life is really like!”
He rose and went to the cupboard, brought down the bottle of scotch and said, “A nightcap. Maggie, how about you?”
“No,” she said. “I’ll take Terry up to bed, read him a story. You two can sit here and get pissed by yourselves.”
Robbie and I shared half the bottle, and when I went upstairs I was woozy, falling asleep immediately.
16.
I awoke to the sound of rain. It drummed steadily on the roof and the window and then there was the noise of the Land Rover engine starting. My head felt delicate and I didn’t feel like eating. What I wanted was a cup of coffee and I debated whether or not I should go downstairs and ask Maggie to make one for me. I got dressed, sat at the laptop and I pulled up the paragraphs I had written about Maggie, our walk, the Strykers in the pub, trolling down the screen, looking for something to stitch them together into some sort of relationship, trying to find a story that would link them, as if they were patches I could make into a quilt if only I could find the design. I didn’t hear Maggie and was startled to look up and see her in the doorway, holding two mugs of tea.
“Here, Jack Stone,” she said, holding out one of them. “Time for a break from your opus.”
I took the mug, set it on the table next to the laptop. When I turned back she was leaning in the doorway, watching me. She said nothing, simply looked, and I waited, wondering what she was thinking. Then she spoke:
“You’re a watcher, Jack Stone. A looker. That first evening you were here you were watching me, and the afternoon when you were pretending to write with Terry and at tea every evening. Even when you’re talking with Robbie I can feel your eyes on me, and I’m wondering what you’re looking at. What do you see in me that holds your attention, Jack Stone?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. She had caught me by surprise.
“Out with it,” she said. “You’re a big boy. What is it that you’re looking at so intently?”
She still leaned against the door jamb, raising the mug of tea to her lips and sipping at it, but her eyes never left mine.
“Am I that obvious?” I asked.
“Not to Robbie. Or Terry. But I can feel you watching me even when I’m not looking at you, and I’m wondering what you see in a Dorset farm wife in an old jumper and a raggedy skirt. Come on, mister writer, give me some words.”
I took a deep breath. “I watch the way your neck rises from your shoulders and the way you move barefoot across the floor and I try to memorize the way you move so I can come up here and write it down.”
“It’s all just fodder for your story?”
“There is no story.”
“There is no story? You mean all that stuff about your rubbish assignment was just a lie? You’re not really a writer, you’re a spy from the tourist board come to see if we treat our guests right?”
“No, I’m a writer. I’ve told you all about that. But now I have no story, just fragments. Bits and pieces. I’m hoping that something will happen to me, and it will all fall into place.”
“So, I’m bits and pieces, am I? And what else do you see?”
“You’re a remarkable woman. I wish I were twenty years younger.”
“You’re not so bad yourself, Jack Stone. And that twenty years older rubbish isn’t becoming.” She had raised one hand to the nape of her neck and was absently braiding her hair with her thumb and forefinger again. “You’ve a quiet manner
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