alone.
Because, I was slowly beginning to realise, there were not many other reasons to like him. He talked about a stag party he had recently been invited to, where monumental quantities of alcohol had been consumed, and the groom had been left tied to some railings outside his grandmother’s house, stark naked. Paul thought that was funny. I found myself musing on the differences between men – the cads versus the decent blokes, in the lingo of the Thirties. It was not a new topic for me, and as usual I came to the conclusion that you were formed by the sort of women there were in your life. A good woman could rehabilitate the most dreadful bounder, given a chance. But that didn’t explain why the decent ones remained decent, even if harnessed to a sarcastic nagging slut. That, presumably, was down to their mother, who sowed the seeds of right thinking so firmly they could never be uprooted.
I found myself catching the eye of Thea as she turned her head to see if we were keeping up with her. She had listened quietly to Paul’s story, revealing nothing in the back view she kept to us as she trotted along, but somehow I knew she hadn’t liked it. Jessica had giggled in the right places, for which nobody could really blame her.
Now, in Thea’s eyes, I saw my own feelings reflected. For good measure, she rolled them upwards in the universal sign of scorn, but she hadn’t needed to do that. I had already decided that she was a kindred spirit, the previous day. I did something I couldn’t remember ever having done before, and winked at her, wondering how she would take it. Her answering grin came as a relief.
We walked about half a mile to the Baker’s Arms, passing several beautiful buildings on the way. A long, low one on the right, calling itself the Old Malt House, was a very upmarket guest house, according to the sign. Then a small fairytale church, opposite a high wall topped by a hedge with birds and other things created out of its greenery. The pub came next, on the right. We all filed in, only to be told that dogs were not permitted in the bar. Crossly, Thea led us to a chilly little arrangement outside, just beyond the kitchen, where some sort of creeper provided a bit of shelter. ‘It’d be lovely in June,’ said Jessica.
Thea ranted briefly about society’s ridiculous change of heart concerning dogs. I paid a visit to the loo, pausing to admire a large wall hanging depicting the pub. ‘Distinctive,’ I murmured to the woman behind the bar. ‘Is it a tapestry?’
‘It’s actually a rug,’ she said wearily. ‘A local woman made it for us, ages ago.’
It then turned out that credit cards were not acceptable, so we had an undignified scramble for cash, with Paul producing a meagre sixty-five pence. ‘I don’t really do cash,’ he said, as if it were an obsolete practice. I emptied my pockets, managing to produce enough for myself and a little bit over.
Finally we got the food, which I spoilt for myself by a growing feeling that I should not be there. I should be at home, dealing with family and business, garden and car tyres – not indulging in this strange interlude with people I was never going to see again. We spoke briefly about the grave and its transgressions against the council, but Thea waved my worries away with an airy dismissal of petty bureaucracy. ‘They’re just trying it on,’ she said. Jessica tried to put the official view, but was out of her depth when it came to the legalities. I knew a lot more than she did on the subject, but refrained from making this too apparent.
Another person with pressing worries was Thea. ‘I was booked to stay here for another week,’ she said. ‘And now I don’t know what to do. They tell me the house belongs to the older nephew now, Charles Talbot, but he doesn’t seem interested. He hadn’t seen Greta for five years, and he’s in the middle of a horrible divorce. I couldn’t get a straight answer out of him when I asked what I
Because, I was slowly beginning to realise, there were not many other reasons to like him. He talked about a stag party he had recently been invited to, where monumental quantities of alcohol had been consumed, and the groom had been left tied to some railings outside his grandmother’s house, stark naked. Paul thought that was funny. I found myself musing on the differences between men – the cads versus the decent blokes, in the lingo of the Thirties. It was not a new topic for me, and as usual I came to the conclusion that you were formed by the sort of women there were in your life. A good woman could rehabilitate the most dreadful bounder, given a chance. But that didn’t explain why the decent ones remained decent, even if harnessed to a sarcastic nagging slut. That, presumably, was down to their mother, who sowed the seeds of right thinking so firmly they could never be uprooted.
I found myself catching the eye of Thea as she turned her head to see if we were keeping up with her. She had listened quietly to Paul’s story, revealing nothing in the back view she kept to us as she trotted along, but somehow I knew she hadn’t liked it. Jessica had giggled in the right places, for which nobody could really blame her.
Now, in Thea’s eyes, I saw my own feelings reflected. For good measure, she rolled them upwards in the universal sign of scorn, but she hadn’t needed to do that. I had already decided that she was a kindred spirit, the previous day. I did something I couldn’t remember ever having done before, and winked at her, wondering how she would take it. Her answering grin came as a relief.
We walked about half a mile to the Baker’s Arms, passing several beautiful buildings on the way. A long, low one on the right, calling itself the Old Malt House, was a very upmarket guest house, according to the sign. Then a small fairytale church, opposite a high wall topped by a hedge with birds and other things created out of its greenery. The pub came next, on the right. We all filed in, only to be told that dogs were not permitted in the bar. Crossly, Thea led us to a chilly little arrangement outside, just beyond the kitchen, where some sort of creeper provided a bit of shelter. ‘It’d be lovely in June,’ said Jessica.
Thea ranted briefly about society’s ridiculous change of heart concerning dogs. I paid a visit to the loo, pausing to admire a large wall hanging depicting the pub. ‘Distinctive,’ I murmured to the woman behind the bar. ‘Is it a tapestry?’
‘It’s actually a rug,’ she said wearily. ‘A local woman made it for us, ages ago.’
It then turned out that credit cards were not acceptable, so we had an undignified scramble for cash, with Paul producing a meagre sixty-five pence. ‘I don’t really do cash,’ he said, as if it were an obsolete practice. I emptied my pockets, managing to produce enough for myself and a little bit over.
Finally we got the food, which I spoilt for myself by a growing feeling that I should not be there. I should be at home, dealing with family and business, garden and car tyres – not indulging in this strange interlude with people I was never going to see again. We spoke briefly about the grave and its transgressions against the council, but Thea waved my worries away with an airy dismissal of petty bureaucracy. ‘They’re just trying it on,’ she said. Jessica tried to put the official view, but was out of her depth when it came to the legalities. I knew a lot more than she did on the subject, but refrained from making this too apparent.
Another person with pressing worries was Thea. ‘I was booked to stay here for another week,’ she said. ‘And now I don’t know what to do. They tell me the house belongs to the older nephew now, Charles Talbot, but he doesn’t seem interested. He hadn’t seen Greta for five years, and he’s in the middle of a horrible divorce. I couldn’t get a straight answer out of him when I asked what I
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