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Authors: Rebecca Tope
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a sunny day. As it is, it hardly feels as if the sun’s risen at all. What do you want?’
‘You,’ he said disarmingly.
‘Nin – I’ve got a mass of work to do. If you really wanted me, you’d have shown up over the weekend. Two and a half days were completely free, and you didn’t appear for any of it.’
‘You were busy with your dad, or so you told me.’
‘There was still Sunday, and quite a lot of Saturday. Where were you? I tried phoning. I nearly came to see you.’
‘Why didn’t you? It’s easier for you. I have to wait for a bus, or walk, if I’m to get all the way up to Troutbeck.’
She had unlocked the door, turning her back on him and trying to identify her emotions. Impatience, confusion, a niggle of apprehension were all on the list. ‘I didn’t know whether you’d be there. Whether you’d want me. I never know.’
‘I’m here now,’ he said, as if that solved everything.
She sighed. Somehow it was her failing, not his, that made things so difficult. If she had driven up to his tiny cottage on the edge of Brant Fell, he’d have welcomed her and probably even taken her to bed. She knew that. She knew he assumed an easy bohemian relationship that saw no need for plans or telephones or irritating reproaches. The problem was that she still needed a clear invitation before risking it. She needed to know he wasn’t constructing a delicate piece of pottery, or sleeping off a heavy bout of drinking or smoking pot. Or even entertaining another woman. She had no real evidence that he was loyal to her alone. He made no promises. Against her will, she found herself comparing him with the ultra-responsible and painfully devoted DI Moxon. A devotion that made very few demands, and which endured rejection and indifference with a terrible stoicism.
‘I’m busy,’ she repeated. ‘Sorry, but there’s that enormousfuneral on Friday, which is taking up all my time.’
‘Ah yes. The sainted Barbara Hodge. Choirs of angels must be singing her to rest, at this very moment.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘Once by accident. I had a stall at a craft fair and she came by, doing her grand lady act. Bought one of my pieces, as it happens. I was gobsmacked. I think it was the only thing I sold all day. Kept me in bread and milk for a fortnight.’
‘So you’ll go to the funeral, then?’ she teased.
‘In your dreams. A better idea would be to break into the house while everybody’s at the church and take the pot back. It’ll go to some undeserving nephew otherwise.’
‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Simmy. ‘Now, get out of my way. It’s nearly nine already. I suppose Bonnie’ll be here soon.’
‘Who?’ He frowned worriedly, as if the name should be familiar.
‘The new girl. Melanie found her. She’s here all week, learning the ropes.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Small. Fragile. Pale. But she seems bright enough and fairly interested in the business.’
‘Can’t wait to meet her,’ he grinned. ‘How old is she?’
‘Young enough to be your daughter.’
‘Come on!’ he remonstrated. ‘Don’t give me that look. I might be feckless, but nobody’s ever accused me of lusting after young girls. To be honest, I find them boring. Except your Melanie, of course.’
‘Right. Now go.’
He went, humming a tune Simmy didn’t recognise. She watched him cross the little street and disappeartowards the northern end of town. If he had suddenly dematerialised in a puff of white mist, she would hardly have been surprised. Ninian was elusive, almost slippery in his unreliable availability. His body was narrow and pale and bony, although his potter’s hands were strong. He was easy to love, but impossible to depend on. She sighed and went out to the back room where stacks of funeral flowers awaited her nimble fingers.
Bonnie arrived at precisely nine o’clock, standing hesitantly just inside the shop. Simmy peered around the door of the cool room and called a
‘You,’ he said disarmingly.
‘Nin – I’ve got a mass of work to do. If you really wanted me, you’d have shown up over the weekend. Two and a half days were completely free, and you didn’t appear for any of it.’
‘You were busy with your dad, or so you told me.’
‘There was still Sunday, and quite a lot of Saturday. Where were you? I tried phoning. I nearly came to see you.’
‘Why didn’t you? It’s easier for you. I have to wait for a bus, or walk, if I’m to get all the way up to Troutbeck.’
She had unlocked the door, turning her back on him and trying to identify her emotions. Impatience, confusion, a niggle of apprehension were all on the list. ‘I didn’t know whether you’d be there. Whether you’d want me. I never know.’
‘I’m here now,’ he said, as if that solved everything.
She sighed. Somehow it was her failing, not his, that made things so difficult. If she had driven up to his tiny cottage on the edge of Brant Fell, he’d have welcomed her and probably even taken her to bed. She knew that. She knew he assumed an easy bohemian relationship that saw no need for plans or telephones or irritating reproaches. The problem was that she still needed a clear invitation before risking it. She needed to know he wasn’t constructing a delicate piece of pottery, or sleeping off a heavy bout of drinking or smoking pot. Or even entertaining another woman. She had no real evidence that he was loyal to her alone. He made no promises. Against her will, she found herself comparing him with the ultra-responsible and painfully devoted DI Moxon. A devotion that made very few demands, and which endured rejection and indifference with a terrible stoicism.
‘I’m busy,’ she repeated. ‘Sorry, but there’s that enormousfuneral on Friday, which is taking up all my time.’
‘Ah yes. The sainted Barbara Hodge. Choirs of angels must be singing her to rest, at this very moment.’
‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘Once by accident. I had a stall at a craft fair and she came by, doing her grand lady act. Bought one of my pieces, as it happens. I was gobsmacked. I think it was the only thing I sold all day. Kept me in bread and milk for a fortnight.’
‘So you’ll go to the funeral, then?’ she teased.
‘In your dreams. A better idea would be to break into the house while everybody’s at the church and take the pot back. It’ll go to some undeserving nephew otherwise.’
‘I didn’t hear that,’ said Simmy. ‘Now, get out of my way. It’s nearly nine already. I suppose Bonnie’ll be here soon.’
‘Who?’ He frowned worriedly, as if the name should be familiar.
‘The new girl. Melanie found her. She’s here all week, learning the ropes.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Small. Fragile. Pale. But she seems bright enough and fairly interested in the business.’
‘Can’t wait to meet her,’ he grinned. ‘How old is she?’
‘Young enough to be your daughter.’
‘Come on!’ he remonstrated. ‘Don’t give me that look. I might be feckless, but nobody’s ever accused me of lusting after young girls. To be honest, I find them boring. Except your Melanie, of course.’
‘Right. Now go.’
He went, humming a tune Simmy didn’t recognise. She watched him cross the little street and disappeartowards the northern end of town. If he had suddenly dematerialised in a puff of white mist, she would hardly have been surprised. Ninian was elusive, almost slippery in his unreliable availability. His body was narrow and pale and bony, although his potter’s hands were strong. He was easy to love, but impossible to depend on. She sighed and went out to the back room where stacks of funeral flowers awaited her nimble fingers.
Bonnie arrived at precisely nine o’clock, standing hesitantly just inside the shop. Simmy peered around the door of the cool room and called a
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