different.
Everything was different.
He stood for a while on top of a slope overlooking the river and threw the ball. He was training Raffles to the gun. The dog raced and dived, retrieved and returned, and it was only when he began to slow down on the way back with the ball in his mouth, panting with pleasure and tiredness, that Phil sat down on the grass. Raffles lay companionably beside him, the wet ball tucked beneath his chin. It had been another hot day. The midges seethed over the water.
Everything was different.
He did not know if he believed in a coup de foudre . It had taken him months to be sure of his feelings for Sheila, though once he was sure marriage had been the next and easy step. It was only in the last year that he had entertained the idea of looking for someone again and he had usually pushed it straight out of mind.
It had been the thought of winter that had troubled him, winter alone, now that Hugh was in Africa and Tom so wrapped up in his acting. Phil had resources. There was much that he could enjoy. Winter was the time for pheasant-shooting. But “alone” had begun to read “lonely.” The thought would not leave him.
He had walked into the pub to meet Helen Creedy hoping to have a friendly drink and to find a companion for the theatre from time to time. Helen Creedy. Hehad seen her and known, in a way he had never known anything since Sheila, that she would be important. Would change his life. Would …
Stop. He watched as a heron flapped up from the water and flew away, legs dangling, ungainly in the air as it was graceful at rest.
Stop.
Helen Creedy. What? He tried words in his head, watching the letters move about and come together, words like Enjoy. Friend. Pretty. Fun. Intelligent. Good. Talk.
Like Gentle. Sympathetic.
Like Company. Good listener.
Like Attracted.
Love.
Stop.
What was love? He had loved Sheila. Of course he had, though love had changed every year, as love did. Early love. Surprised love. Warm love. Protective. Married. Parent. Everyday. Companionable. Happy. Frightened. Anguished. Desolate. Bereaved love. Grief.
He loved Hugh and Tom. That was different.
What was this now? Attraction. Liking. Enjoyment. Pleasure.
Love?
The shadows were lengthening. The cloud of midges thickened and jazzed closer to the surface of the water.
Marriage.
Company. Like friendly. Relief.
Marriage. Partnership.
Love.
He stood up and offered to throw the ball again but Raffles wandered away.
Love.
He had rung Helen to ask her to the Jug Fair, an impulse, for fun. She had laughed. Agreed. For fun.
The Cocktail Party was at the Bevham Rep next week.
“I haven’t seen a T.S. Eliot play for years.”
“They don’t do them much.”
“Like Christopher Fry, out of fashion. Pity.”
“And John Whiting.”
“I loved John Whiting! No one has ever heard of him now.”
“ The Cocktail Party then?”
“Yes please.”
Love?
Something was different. Something. He thought about Helen as he drove home, with Raffles asleep on the back seat.
Love?
He was bewildered. Something which had begun in a half-hearted way, something he had dared himself to do, had turned him inside out and he had no experience, no knowledge, no emotional resources to draw on for help. He felt churned up, with anxiety, confusion, regret even at having started this in the first place.
He had not wanted complication, he had wanted someone to enjoy the theatre with now and again.
The theatre and all the fun of the fair.
Thirteen
“Are you telling us you don’t have any suspects at all?”
Serrailler had never felt there was anything to be gained by lying to the press though he had occasionally asked them to conceal a truth for a good reason.
“Yes.”
“The husband’s not in the frame then?”
“No.”
“Are illegal firearms a growing problem in Lafferton now?”
“Not especially. On the other hand, illegal firearms are a growing problem throughout the country.”
“And it was
Everything was different.
He stood for a while on top of a slope overlooking the river and threw the ball. He was training Raffles to the gun. The dog raced and dived, retrieved and returned, and it was only when he began to slow down on the way back with the ball in his mouth, panting with pleasure and tiredness, that Phil sat down on the grass. Raffles lay companionably beside him, the wet ball tucked beneath his chin. It had been another hot day. The midges seethed over the water.
Everything was different.
He did not know if he believed in a coup de foudre . It had taken him months to be sure of his feelings for Sheila, though once he was sure marriage had been the next and easy step. It was only in the last year that he had entertained the idea of looking for someone again and he had usually pushed it straight out of mind.
It had been the thought of winter that had troubled him, winter alone, now that Hugh was in Africa and Tom so wrapped up in his acting. Phil had resources. There was much that he could enjoy. Winter was the time for pheasant-shooting. But “alone” had begun to read “lonely.” The thought would not leave him.
He had walked into the pub to meet Helen Creedy hoping to have a friendly drink and to find a companion for the theatre from time to time. Helen Creedy. Hehad seen her and known, in a way he had never known anything since Sheila, that she would be important. Would change his life. Would …
Stop. He watched as a heron flapped up from the water and flew away, legs dangling, ungainly in the air as it was graceful at rest.
Stop.
Helen Creedy. What? He tried words in his head, watching the letters move about and come together, words like Enjoy. Friend. Pretty. Fun. Intelligent. Good. Talk.
Like Gentle. Sympathetic.
Like Company. Good listener.
Like Attracted.
Love.
Stop.
What was love? He had loved Sheila. Of course he had, though love had changed every year, as love did. Early love. Surprised love. Warm love. Protective. Married. Parent. Everyday. Companionable. Happy. Frightened. Anguished. Desolate. Bereaved love. Grief.
He loved Hugh and Tom. That was different.
What was this now? Attraction. Liking. Enjoyment. Pleasure.
Love?
The shadows were lengthening. The cloud of midges thickened and jazzed closer to the surface of the water.
Marriage.
Company. Like friendly. Relief.
Marriage. Partnership.
Love.
He stood up and offered to throw the ball again but Raffles wandered away.
Love.
He had rung Helen to ask her to the Jug Fair, an impulse, for fun. She had laughed. Agreed. For fun.
The Cocktail Party was at the Bevham Rep next week.
“I haven’t seen a T.S. Eliot play for years.”
“They don’t do them much.”
“Like Christopher Fry, out of fashion. Pity.”
“And John Whiting.”
“I loved John Whiting! No one has ever heard of him now.”
“ The Cocktail Party then?”
“Yes please.”
Love?
Something was different. Something. He thought about Helen as he drove home, with Raffles asleep on the back seat.
Love?
He was bewildered. Something which had begun in a half-hearted way, something he had dared himself to do, had turned him inside out and he had no experience, no knowledge, no emotional resources to draw on for help. He felt churned up, with anxiety, confusion, regret even at having started this in the first place.
He had not wanted complication, he had wanted someone to enjoy the theatre with now and again.
The theatre and all the fun of the fair.
Thirteen
“Are you telling us you don’t have any suspects at all?”
Serrailler had never felt there was anything to be gained by lying to the press though he had occasionally asked them to conceal a truth for a good reason.
“Yes.”
“The husband’s not in the frame then?”
“No.”
“Are illegal firearms a growing problem in Lafferton now?”
“Not especially. On the other hand, illegal firearms are a growing problem throughout the country.”
“And it was
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