Hot Water Man by Deborah Moggach Page B

we’d cleared them up. Sure you’re okay?’
    â€˜Fine, I think. I should’ve worn my shoes.’ She lifted one bare foot, holding his shoulder for balance. The wind blew her hair, whipping his cheek.
    Along the beach, a loose shutter banged. She searched her pocketbook and found the key.
    â€˜Let me do it.’ He felt his way to the hut door and unpad-locked it. He stepped in. The party seemed to have happened a week ago. ‘You wait here,’ he said. ‘You have some matches?’
    She did not wait outside; she came into the hut. She was walking around, holding out her flickering lighter. The flame lit her tilted face and that bumpy nose. ‘I’m sure they’re here somewhere.’ Indoors her voice was smaller. ‘Somewhere around.’ She sounded unsure. ‘There must be some candles. They leave the candles by the sink . . . I thought they did.’
    â€˜I’ll feel around.’
    Like a blind man he ran his hands along the wall. Outside the waves were roaring. Shamime’s face was flickering the other side of the hut.
    â€˜Can’t find the candles,’ she said. ‘Perhaps they took them back.’ She was lost without her servants.
    This end of the hut it was pitch dark. He continued his search. The walls were rough and warm. He felt the floor. It was gritty with sand. His fingers felt the debris swept into the corner – a weightless cigarette carton, more sand. Waving to the right, his hand brushed the webbed back of an armchair. He felt’down its wooden leg.
    â€˜I don’t think they’re here at all,’ said Shamime’s voice.
    He looked up. The light caught her face as it turned. She should be safely back home. His hand met another leg, the next chair. He was old and clumsy. He should be back home too. His fingers felt the wall again; in places it was cracked.
    â€˜You’ve searched your side?’ her voice asked.
    He was near her now. He straightened up.
    â€˜What shall we do?’ she said. ‘I don’t know where they leave things.’ She held up the lighter. Her hair was messed by the wind. His heart lurched. The small flame illuminated her face; her eyes were filled with tears.
    â€˜What will my parents think?’
    He had never seen her like this. The dog barked again, nearer. The wind slammed the door shut. The flame blew out. He felt her jump like a deer.
    A shaky laugh. ‘This is silly,’ she said. ‘You see, I’m terrified of the dark. Duke, are you there?’
    â€˜I’m here.’
    â€˜When I was little . . .’
    Her hand touched his chest. ‘Duke, don’t leave me alone.’

12
    As she entered the door, Christine was already writing the letter to Roz. Part of the reason she had come here, in fact, was to produce something amusing for Roz to flatten out on her desk at Rags. She imagined Roz laughing in that cubbyhole full of other women’s lace. (Her own sister Joyce would not see the joke; Christine’s letters to her were fond enough, but travelogue in tone.)
    The British Wives’ Association is over the other side of our modern suburb. Cars parked down the street outside. I had walked. I only came to see if somebody wanted a gardener so I could find mine another job. Chintzy curtains; loud women in loud prints. Tins of Nescafé and plates of biscuits, a Coffee Mornings atmosphere. Oh, remember our coffee nights? I miss the way we talked.
    Everything nice and safe. Furnishings preserved, Weybridge circa 1956. A room from my own childhood. Wars might rage, Pakistan be gripped by Russians invading through Afghanistan, the crooked Prime Minister overthrown; outside there might be famines and floods, but here inside there will be honey still for tea.
    Large woman called Anthea introduced me. Everyone started praising Ann Smythe, my predecessor, what a brick she was, didn’t know how they’d manage without her. Doubtful looks at my