starter once more without result.
“Hold on a minute!” he called to her. “You’re not improving matters.”
Reaching for the sou’wester, he strode down the path towards her, stooping to open the gate as she got out of the van.
“This is ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “Somebody checked it over for me only last night.”
He lifted the bonnet to look at the engine, sending a tide of rain water over the other side.
“Carburetor trouble,” he decided. “Have you got a rag handy?”
Of course she hadn’t. She felt annoyed.
“The tools rattle about so much I left them at home.”
“You’ll find something in the kitchen.” He glanced back at the Light. “Through the living-room and up two stairs,” he directed.
She felt taken aback, as if she had almost forced her way in.
“I—couldn’t we manage without?”
“I’m afraid not. The whole thing’s awash.”
She made her way back along the path. He had closed the door behind him, but it yielded to her touch this time and she stepped inside. The big, raftered main room was completely round, with high windows letting in the light and a spiral stone staircase leading up to the floor above. It was warm and smelt of leather and the sea, a man’s room where he could live his life undisturbed, alone.
An old collie rose from the hearth, following her up the two steps to the kitchen where coffee was brewing in a glass percolator and two eggs boiled furiously in an enamel pan. They would be as hard as stones by the time he ate them, she thought, pulling the pan aside. Obviously she had disturbed him at his breakfast. The coffee bubbled over on to the stove. He was no doubt wishing her miles away.
Finding a duster, she hurried back through the room and down the path. The collie began to bark and Huntley looked up from the bonnet.
“Your breakfast’s spoiling,” she warned him. “I’ve pulled the eggs aside, but they’ll go on getting harder. If you’ ll tell me what to do with the engine I’ll return your duster in the morning.”
“You’d make greater headway with the eggs,” he suggested. “If you’d like a cup of coffee, help yourself.” She stood irresolute, but it seemed that she couldn’t help much where she was. Slowly she made her way back to the lighthouse.
The percolator sizzled and hissed, drowning out the sound of the wind in this secure eyrie above the cliff. The storm’s onslaught, the battering of wave and rain, meant nothing here inside these thick stone walls, and the fire added a glowing comfort. A great plaited creel stood at the side of the hearth full of driftwood ready to replenish it when it died down, and the collie stretched himself out in front of it, keeping one wary eye on her movements as she attended to the eggs.
The table had been set in a man’s rough and ready fashion, with the bread cut in hunks and Kirsty’s butter all on one plate. She found eggcups and a stand for the percolator. There were no table-napkins in sight and the salt was obviously used straight from the round tin drum in which it had been bought from the village store.
She looked for marmalade, but that appeared to be a luxury for which he had little use, although there was honey in a comb. Dark heather honey with the smell of the moor in it.
Standing back, she surveyed her handiwork, feeling pleased. At least she had saved his breakfast when he had been forced to help her out of her predicament with the van. It equalled things up a little.
When she turned he was standing in the open doorway with an odd, almost puzzled expression in his grey eyes.
“I’ve brought the plugs in,” he told her. “You can’t afford to let a car stand too long facing the sea in weather like this, and your bonnet leaks like a sieve. We’ll have to dry these out.”
“I’m sorry,” she apologised. “I know the van’s in a pretty ropey condition, but it’s all we have. A—friend looked it over for me yesterday, but he won’t be able to service
“Hold on a minute!” he called to her. “You’re not improving matters.”
Reaching for the sou’wester, he strode down the path towards her, stooping to open the gate as she got out of the van.
“This is ridiculous!” she exclaimed. “Somebody checked it over for me only last night.”
He lifted the bonnet to look at the engine, sending a tide of rain water over the other side.
“Carburetor trouble,” he decided. “Have you got a rag handy?”
Of course she hadn’t. She felt annoyed.
“The tools rattle about so much I left them at home.”
“You’ll find something in the kitchen.” He glanced back at the Light. “Through the living-room and up two stairs,” he directed.
She felt taken aback, as if she had almost forced her way in.
“I—couldn’t we manage without?”
“I’m afraid not. The whole thing’s awash.”
She made her way back along the path. He had closed the door behind him, but it yielded to her touch this time and she stepped inside. The big, raftered main room was completely round, with high windows letting in the light and a spiral stone staircase leading up to the floor above. It was warm and smelt of leather and the sea, a man’s room where he could live his life undisturbed, alone.
An old collie rose from the hearth, following her up the two steps to the kitchen where coffee was brewing in a glass percolator and two eggs boiled furiously in an enamel pan. They would be as hard as stones by the time he ate them, she thought, pulling the pan aside. Obviously she had disturbed him at his breakfast. The coffee bubbled over on to the stove. He was no doubt wishing her miles away.
Finding a duster, she hurried back through the room and down the path. The collie began to bark and Huntley looked up from the bonnet.
“Your breakfast’s spoiling,” she warned him. “I’ve pulled the eggs aside, but they’ll go on getting harder. If you’ ll tell me what to do with the engine I’ll return your duster in the morning.”
“You’d make greater headway with the eggs,” he suggested. “If you’d like a cup of coffee, help yourself.” She stood irresolute, but it seemed that she couldn’t help much where she was. Slowly she made her way back to the lighthouse.
The percolator sizzled and hissed, drowning out the sound of the wind in this secure eyrie above the cliff. The storm’s onslaught, the battering of wave and rain, meant nothing here inside these thick stone walls, and the fire added a glowing comfort. A great plaited creel stood at the side of the hearth full of driftwood ready to replenish it when it died down, and the collie stretched himself out in front of it, keeping one wary eye on her movements as she attended to the eggs.
The table had been set in a man’s rough and ready fashion, with the bread cut in hunks and Kirsty’s butter all on one plate. She found eggcups and a stand for the percolator. There were no table-napkins in sight and the salt was obviously used straight from the round tin drum in which it had been bought from the village store.
She looked for marmalade, but that appeared to be a luxury for which he had little use, although there was honey in a comb. Dark heather honey with the smell of the moor in it.
Standing back, she surveyed her handiwork, feeling pleased. At least she had saved his breakfast when he had been forced to help her out of her predicament with the van. It equalled things up a little.
When she turned he was standing in the open doorway with an odd, almost puzzled expression in his grey eyes.
“I’ve brought the plugs in,” he told her. “You can’t afford to let a car stand too long facing the sea in weather like this, and your bonnet leaks like a sieve. We’ll have to dry these out.”
“I’m sorry,” she apologised. “I know the van’s in a pretty ropey condition, but it’s all we have. A—friend looked it over for me yesterday, but he won’t be able to service
Similar Books
