The Switch(89)

I’m hoping it’ll be Marian, but it’s Arnold. He looks different, but I can’t tell why – a new flat cap? A new shirt?

‘Are you all right?’ he says, with his usual abruptness. ‘I saw you stumble, outside the house, and I wondered …’

I bristle. ‘I’m quite all right, thank you.’

He bristles too. We stand there, bristling at one another, and it’s just like old times.

Then his shoulders sag. ‘I missed you,’ he says.

‘I beg your pardon?’ I say, blinking, gripping the door frame to keep steady.

He frowns. ‘You’re not all right. You need to sit down. Come on. Let me come in, will you, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

‘Well,’ I say, still reeling somewhat from Arnold’s last declaration, ‘I suppose you did come to the front door.’

He holds my elbow as we make our way back to the living room rather more slowly than I’d like. It’s comforting to see him, or it was until he said he missed me. That was somewhat discomforting.

‘That confounded cat,’ Arnold says, shooing Dec off the sofa. ‘Here, sit yourself down.’

I just about refrain from reminding him that this is my house, and it ought to be me inviting him to sit. He’s being very neighbourly. In fact he’s being …

‘Is that a new hat?’ I ask abruptly.

‘What?’ His hand goes up self-consciously. ‘Oh. Yes. You like it?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘No need to sound so surprised. I did tell you I’d decided to turn over a new leaf. I got three new hats.’ He’s already off to the kitchen; I hear the sounds of the tap running, the kettle going on. ‘Milk, no sugar?’

‘One sugar,’ I correct him.

‘It’ll ruin your teeth!’ he calls back.

‘Like toffee apples?’

‘Those are fruit, aren’t they?’

I laugh, closing my eyes and leaning my head against the back of the sofa. I’m feeling a little better, like the life’s coming back to my limbs, tingling in my toes and fingers as if I’ve just come in from the cold.

‘You know, Eileen, your cupboards are a state,’ Arnold says, coming back into the room with two large mugs of steaming tea. ‘There’s a tin of broad beans in there from 1994.’

‘Good year, 1994,’ I say, taking my mug.

Arnold smiles. ‘How was it, then? The big city?’ He looks at me shrewdly. ‘Did you find your one true love?’

‘Oh, shut up.’

‘What? You didn’t bring a man back with you, then?’ He looks around as if checking the corners for Romeos.

‘You know I didn’t,’ I say, whacking his arm. ‘Though I did have a rather torrid love affair.’

He looks back at me very quickly. ‘Torrid?’

‘Well, I think so. I’ve never actually been very sure of what that means.’ I shrug. ‘An actor, from the West End. It was never going to last, but it was good fun.’

Arnold is looking very serious all of a sudden. I suppress a grin. I’ve missed winding Arnold up.

‘But it’s over now?’ he asks. ‘And there wasn’t anyone else?’

‘Well,’ I say coyly. ‘There was one other man. But I was only chatting to him online.’

Arnold sits up a little straighter and begins to smile. ‘Oh, aye?’ he says.

‘He’s lovely. A really sensitive man. His life hasn’t been easy, and he has his troubles, but he’s so kind and thoughtful.’

‘Sensitive, eh?’ Arnold says, raising his eyebrows.

‘He’s been reading Agatha Christie because he knows she’s my favourite author.’ I smile, thinking of Howard tucked up in his flat, coming to the end of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.

‘Oh, he has, has he? How do you know that? Did someone dob him in?’ Arnold asks, still smiling.

I tilt my head at him. ‘He told me himself.’

Arnold’s smile wavers. ‘Eh?’ he says.

‘About the books. He lets me know when he finishes each one, and tells me when lines make him think of me, and …’

Arnold gets up so abruptly he spills tea down his shirt. ‘Bugger,’ he says, dabbing at it with his sleeve.

‘Don’t dab with that, you’re just making it worse!’ I say, moving to stand. ‘I’ll fetch you a—’

‘Don’t bother,’ he says gruffly. ‘I’d better be gone.’ He puts down the half-empty tea mug and strides out of the living room. A moment later I hear the front door slam.

Well. What on earth’s got into Arnold?

*

As soon as I have the energy, I get myself up and pull my shoes on and I walk rather more slowly than usual to Marian’s house. This is the loveliest part of coming home, knowing I’ll see her again. At least, I hope it’ll be lovely. A little part of me is afraid she might be doing worse, not better, and I’ll realise I shouldn’t have left Hamleigh after all.

She knows I’m home today, but when I give her a knock nobody answers the door. I swallow uneasily and try calling her, but she doesn’t answer. She’s probably just nipped out. I’ll see if she’s down at the village shop.