a hall twenty yards long, with wood panelling and chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling.
‘Self-made man,’ he said, with satisfaction about some successful industrialist. ‘Same as me.’
They watched, fascinated, as he speared a piece of steak with his fork, and bit a huge mouthful off the side.
‘Is that it?’ says Miss Doody. ‘Don’t you have anything more substantial?’
I didn’t invite you to dinner, he thinks.
‘It’s my roof,’ she says. ‘I want to do it. I told Jonathan that I couldn’t afford to pay someone, but he doesn’t listen. Just because he earns pots of money, he thinks the whole world is stinking rich. He forgets too easily.’
She stops talking for a while. The wind blows her hair back towards the mainland. He can see darker roots below the blonde.
‘I inherited the cottage from my godfather. Just like that. I didn’t know anything about it until it landed in my lap. I was going to sell it. Jonathan offered to pay for the roof, but he won’t do it really. He wants things to be a sound investment. He would take one look at the cottage and tell me it needs knocking down. Then he’d tell me to build a new house or sell the land. He wouldn’t care. It’d just be an investment or a useful windfall. He only thinks in terms of money.’
Her voice is less harsh when she’s talking properly. He sits further back than her so that she doesn’t keep looking at him. But he has to strain sometimes to hear what she says.
‘The thing is, I like the cottage. I don’t see why I shouldn’t do it up. It would be all mine. Not like where I live now—in a school.’
He knew she was a teacher. It was obvious.
‘I can saw and hammer and paint. It’s my job. Why can’t I do the roof?’
He wishes she wouldn’t keep going on about the roof. He’ll take the sails down tomorrow.
‘Children have no respect. I had one boy ready to punch me. Year six, eleven years old, his fist just under my nose. I couldsee the flicker of indecision in his eyes. Yes or no. Of course he would have been expelled, but that wouldn’t have saved my nose, would it? It might have been worth it, I suppose, if I’d never had to see him again. Useless headmaster. Thinks I’m stupid. Wants to call me “dear”, pat me on the head. He might do that to Doris the Lion Tamer, although I can’t see her taking it. Was that your cat?’
Does she always talk like this? Too many words, not enough links, too loose a chain.
‘I shouldn’t have come. I suppose it was pretty stupid coming out here on my crutches. It’s not broken, the ankle. I had it X-rayed. Just sprained. “Rest it,” they said, but it’s so boring. Haven’t you got anything else to eat?’
He’s not sure. He has to think. What does she like? Ricotta and spinach cannelloni? Alphabet spaghetti?
‘I found you from the post office. Tall man with a beard, doesn’t talk. The woman who works there was useless, but someone else knew you. Said you lived in a lighthouse. I wish it was me. Never having to talk to anyone.’
You’d have problems with that.
Tell her your name, Straker .
‘People are so stupid, they drive me crazy.’
He realises that it’s a long time since he last spoke out loud. Do you lose the ability if you don’t keep it oiled?
‘And you can always be higher than everyone else.’
He clears his throat. That makes a noise. Encouraged, he opens his mouth.
‘I spend a lot of time on my school roof. You can watch without being seen.’
He hesitates, shuts his mouth, opens it again.
‘Jonathan says they might be antique tiles. They could be worth a fortune.’
‘My name is…’ he starts to say, but no sound comes out. He coughs and tries again. ‘My name is Peter Straker.’ His voice sounds odd, as if someone else is doing the talking.
She doesn’t even turn to look at him. ‘I know that,’ she says. ‘They told me in the post office.’
A seagull swoops down in front of them, and lands two yards away.
‘Self-made man,’ he said, with satisfaction about some successful industrialist. ‘Same as me.’
They watched, fascinated, as he speared a piece of steak with his fork, and bit a huge mouthful off the side.
‘Is that it?’ says Miss Doody. ‘Don’t you have anything more substantial?’
I didn’t invite you to dinner, he thinks.
‘It’s my roof,’ she says. ‘I want to do it. I told Jonathan that I couldn’t afford to pay someone, but he doesn’t listen. Just because he earns pots of money, he thinks the whole world is stinking rich. He forgets too easily.’
She stops talking for a while. The wind blows her hair back towards the mainland. He can see darker roots below the blonde.
‘I inherited the cottage from my godfather. Just like that. I didn’t know anything about it until it landed in my lap. I was going to sell it. Jonathan offered to pay for the roof, but he won’t do it really. He wants things to be a sound investment. He would take one look at the cottage and tell me it needs knocking down. Then he’d tell me to build a new house or sell the land. He wouldn’t care. It’d just be an investment or a useful windfall. He only thinks in terms of money.’
Her voice is less harsh when she’s talking properly. He sits further back than her so that she doesn’t keep looking at him. But he has to strain sometimes to hear what she says.
‘The thing is, I like the cottage. I don’t see why I shouldn’t do it up. It would be all mine. Not like where I live now—in a school.’
He knew she was a teacher. It was obvious.
‘I can saw and hammer and paint. It’s my job. Why can’t I do the roof?’
He wishes she wouldn’t keep going on about the roof. He’ll take the sails down tomorrow.
‘Children have no respect. I had one boy ready to punch me. Year six, eleven years old, his fist just under my nose. I couldsee the flicker of indecision in his eyes. Yes or no. Of course he would have been expelled, but that wouldn’t have saved my nose, would it? It might have been worth it, I suppose, if I’d never had to see him again. Useless headmaster. Thinks I’m stupid. Wants to call me “dear”, pat me on the head. He might do that to Doris the Lion Tamer, although I can’t see her taking it. Was that your cat?’
Does she always talk like this? Too many words, not enough links, too loose a chain.
‘I shouldn’t have come. I suppose it was pretty stupid coming out here on my crutches. It’s not broken, the ankle. I had it X-rayed. Just sprained. “Rest it,” they said, but it’s so boring. Haven’t you got anything else to eat?’
He’s not sure. He has to think. What does she like? Ricotta and spinach cannelloni? Alphabet spaghetti?
‘I found you from the post office. Tall man with a beard, doesn’t talk. The woman who works there was useless, but someone else knew you. Said you lived in a lighthouse. I wish it was me. Never having to talk to anyone.’
You’d have problems with that.
Tell her your name, Straker .
‘People are so stupid, they drive me crazy.’
He realises that it’s a long time since he last spoke out loud. Do you lose the ability if you don’t keep it oiled?
‘And you can always be higher than everyone else.’
He clears his throat. That makes a noise. Encouraged, he opens his mouth.
‘I spend a lot of time on my school roof. You can watch without being seen.’
He hesitates, shuts his mouth, opens it again.
‘Jonathan says they might be antique tiles. They could be worth a fortune.’
‘My name is…’ he starts to say, but no sound comes out. He coughs and tries again. ‘My name is Peter Straker.’ His voice sounds odd, as if someone else is doing the talking.
She doesn’t even turn to look at him. ‘I know that,’ she says. ‘They told me in the post office.’
A seagull swoops down in front of them, and lands two yards away.
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