a few remarks about the weather. He gave us a dish of peanuts. When he had gone back to the other end of the long bar, Daniel said, "All right, I'm sorry."
"What for?"
"For insulting Mrs. Tolliver, and for being bloody to you. I am in fact quite often bloody. It's as well to know before we embark on some deathless friendship." He looked at me and smiled.
"You didn't insult her." I added ruefully, "To be perfectly truthful, I don't much like her either."
"How do you come to be on such intimate terms with her?"
"Talking to someone at a bridge table isn't exactly being intimate."
"But you do know her quite well?"
"No, I don't. But my mother used to play bridge with her when we came down to stay with Phoebe. And then yesterday I travelled down on the train from London with her little granddaughter, Charlotte Collis. Her mother is Annabelle Tolliver. She was sitting next to me and she looked rather miserable, so we went and had lunch together. There was ..." I decided not to go into the details of Charlotte's predicament, ". . . some complication, and she can't be at her boarding school, so she's spending a week with Mrs. Tolliver. Phoebe says she's a lonely child; she's always at Holly Cottage, just to have someone to talk to."
Daniel, quietly smoking his cigar, said nothing. I wondered if I was boring him stiff and looked to see if he was politely stifling yawns. But he wasn't. He was simply sitting, his elbow propped on the bar, his profile showing no expression, his eyes downcast. The smoke of his cigar made a fragrant, curling plume.
I took a mouthful of delicious icy lager. "Mrs. Tolliver didn't really want her to stay, according to Phoebe. She didn't even come to the junction to meet Charlotte off the train, and Charlotte and I had to share Mr. Thomas's taxi. And now, today, Mrs. Tolliver's playing bridge, and she's left the child with her housekeeper. It can't be much fun for Charlotte. She's only about ten. She should be with other children."
After a little, Daniel said, "Yes." He put out his half-smoked cigar, grinding the stub into the ashtray as though he had a grudge against it. He finished his drink and set down the empty glass, then turned and smiled at me and said, surprisingly, "Tomorrow. Will you come and have lunch with me?"
Taken unawares, I did not immediately reply. He went on, swiftly, "That is, if Phoebe can spare you. And lend you her car again."
"I think she could. I don't think she'd mind."
"Ask her, then, when you get back."
"All right. Shall I come here? To the hotel?"
"No. I'll meet you in the Ship Inn on the harbour in Porthkerris. We'll get a ploughman's lunch and a glass of beer, and if it's fine we'll go and sit on the harbour wall and pretend we're tourists."
I smiled. "What time?"
He shrugged. "About half past twelve."
"All right." I was very pleased that he had asked me. "Half past twelve."
He said, "Good. Now finish your lager and I'll take you back to the car."
We emerged from the revolving doors, ejected into wet darkness. We found Phoebe's car, and Daniel opened the door for me, but before I could get into it, he had put his hand around the back of my neck and drawn my face towards his and kissed my mouth. His face was damp with the rain, and for an instant we stood there, and I felt the cool pressure of his cheek against my own.
We said good night. I drove giddily back to Penmarron, feeling drunk, as though I had consumed a great deal more than a single half-pint of lager.
I was bursting to tell Phoebe about everything and to indulge in more long and illuminating discussions about Daniel and Mrs. Tolliver and Charlotte, but when I got back to Holly Cottage, I disturbed her dozing by the fire, and when she woke up, she admitted that she was very tired. Her arm ached, the cast was heavy, the day had been long and exciting. She looked tired, too, her face, beneath the obliterating brim of her hat, thin and shadowed. So I told her only that Daniel had asked me to
"What for?"
"For insulting Mrs. Tolliver, and for being bloody to you. I am in fact quite often bloody. It's as well to know before we embark on some deathless friendship." He looked at me and smiled.
"You didn't insult her." I added ruefully, "To be perfectly truthful, I don't much like her either."
"How do you come to be on such intimate terms with her?"
"Talking to someone at a bridge table isn't exactly being intimate."
"But you do know her quite well?"
"No, I don't. But my mother used to play bridge with her when we came down to stay with Phoebe. And then yesterday I travelled down on the train from London with her little granddaughter, Charlotte Collis. Her mother is Annabelle Tolliver. She was sitting next to me and she looked rather miserable, so we went and had lunch together. There was ..." I decided not to go into the details of Charlotte's predicament, ". . . some complication, and she can't be at her boarding school, so she's spending a week with Mrs. Tolliver. Phoebe says she's a lonely child; she's always at Holly Cottage, just to have someone to talk to."
Daniel, quietly smoking his cigar, said nothing. I wondered if I was boring him stiff and looked to see if he was politely stifling yawns. But he wasn't. He was simply sitting, his elbow propped on the bar, his profile showing no expression, his eyes downcast. The smoke of his cigar made a fragrant, curling plume.
I took a mouthful of delicious icy lager. "Mrs. Tolliver didn't really want her to stay, according to Phoebe. She didn't even come to the junction to meet Charlotte off the train, and Charlotte and I had to share Mr. Thomas's taxi. And now, today, Mrs. Tolliver's playing bridge, and she's left the child with her housekeeper. It can't be much fun for Charlotte. She's only about ten. She should be with other children."
After a little, Daniel said, "Yes." He put out his half-smoked cigar, grinding the stub into the ashtray as though he had a grudge against it. He finished his drink and set down the empty glass, then turned and smiled at me and said, surprisingly, "Tomorrow. Will you come and have lunch with me?"
Taken unawares, I did not immediately reply. He went on, swiftly, "That is, if Phoebe can spare you. And lend you her car again."
"I think she could. I don't think she'd mind."
"Ask her, then, when you get back."
"All right. Shall I come here? To the hotel?"
"No. I'll meet you in the Ship Inn on the harbour in Porthkerris. We'll get a ploughman's lunch and a glass of beer, and if it's fine we'll go and sit on the harbour wall and pretend we're tourists."
I smiled. "What time?"
He shrugged. "About half past twelve."
"All right." I was very pleased that he had asked me. "Half past twelve."
He said, "Good. Now finish your lager and I'll take you back to the car."
We emerged from the revolving doors, ejected into wet darkness. We found Phoebe's car, and Daniel opened the door for me, but before I could get into it, he had put his hand around the back of my neck and drawn my face towards his and kissed my mouth. His face was damp with the rain, and for an instant we stood there, and I felt the cool pressure of his cheek against my own.
We said good night. I drove giddily back to Penmarron, feeling drunk, as though I had consumed a great deal more than a single half-pint of lager.
I was bursting to tell Phoebe about everything and to indulge in more long and illuminating discussions about Daniel and Mrs. Tolliver and Charlotte, but when I got back to Holly Cottage, I disturbed her dozing by the fire, and when she woke up, she admitted that she was very tired. Her arm ached, the cast was heavy, the day had been long and exciting. She looked tired, too, her face, beneath the obliterating brim of her hat, thin and shadowed. So I told her only that Daniel had asked me to
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