until this moment. The anger rises in you, magnificent.
‘I wasn’t taking your book, I was reading it.’
God this would never work. You want to throttle him.
‘And don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of coming back,’ you throw at him in parting, in the voice of a kid with their tongue stuck out.
Lesson 57
If you want a thing done, go yourself
There is a pump, of course; you know bike sheds. You find it in the fumbly gloom, dragging cobwebs furiously from your face. Fill the tyre outside, fast, the light is now rapidly fading. He’s watching from his kitchen window; watching like you’re going to curl up in that shed and make a right home of it or grab for the taking a different bike.
You fling his pump back inside the shed. An almighty clatter. Don’t care. Ride off without looking back. Cycling fast, swerving wildly at a twisted bit of muffler rearing up like a petrified snake and righting yourself hurtling on but in less than three minutes the tyre is flat, again; now you’re speeding on the rim and feeling every jeering bump. You fling the bike down in disgust, it’s not going to work. Turn back to the window. Yep, still watching. Of course. The little girl inside you screams. You sweep your hands out theatrically before the carcass of your useless bike: behold. You’re going to have to go back, whether he likes it or not.
A loud rap on his workroom door.
‘I’m stuck.’
‘So I see.’
‘You’ll have to drive me home or I’m here all night. And you’ve got a lot of books.’
Despite himself, the snort of a laugh.
The door snaps open. Car keys are in his hand. The voice is low, warning, but there’s just a hint of a smile.
‘Never, ever mention that you’ve found this place.’
‘What’ll you give me?’ You grin, can’t help it, naughtied up. ‘My uncle knows the inside of every house in this valley … except this one.’
The shudder is almost visible. You eye the book in his pocket. He clamps his hand protectively to the little Victorian volume and turns on his heel, to the car.
‘Your reward is a lift home which I’ve really got no time for because I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to finish. Tonight.’
He pats his pocket, his back to you.
‘And besides, she may have something to teach me. Thanks for that.’
Lesson 58
They who are little spoken of in the world at large
You’ve overtaken him, leaping into the passenger seat before he’s near his car. Bec is flurrying all over you with snuffles and licks, all the unconditional love which you return, laughing in relief; at least someone appreciates you in this place.
‘You’re very … alive … aren’t you?’ the man says in bemused distaste, as he starts the ignition.
‘And you’re not?’
Annoyance is smoothing your self-consciousness, and being in a car, and with a dog; if you were in any other situation you’d never be able to talk like this. Just the careful way he’s dressed would usually stumble your talk—all he’d need is a Gauloises to complete the image and Lune has told you, wild-eyed, about the men who smoke them. He takes a deep breath.
‘I’ll drop you on the outskirts of Beddington. And remember, you’ll never be able to come back here, I’ll see to that. Don’t even think about it.’
Intrigued. By all of it. Too much you don’t know and it’s right at your doorstep and you’ve got weeks of holidays ahead of youand a home you need to escape and he’s reeling you in and has no idea of it.
His voice is smooth and sure, a hidden creek overarched by the bush, strong and cool and self-sufficient. You, on the other hand, are a desert before him: wide open, ready, aching for nourishment. And he smiled, he laughed—was it once, twice—you got him to do it, just.
The car roars through a cathedral of trees, you’ve never driven so fast.
‘Whoo hooooo!’ You’re suddenly laughing, winding down your window and butting the wind with your face.
‘Get your head in,’ he
‘I wasn’t taking your book, I was reading it.’
God this would never work. You want to throttle him.
‘And don’t worry, I wouldn’t dream of coming back,’ you throw at him in parting, in the voice of a kid with their tongue stuck out.
Lesson 57
If you want a thing done, go yourself
There is a pump, of course; you know bike sheds. You find it in the fumbly gloom, dragging cobwebs furiously from your face. Fill the tyre outside, fast, the light is now rapidly fading. He’s watching from his kitchen window; watching like you’re going to curl up in that shed and make a right home of it or grab for the taking a different bike.
You fling his pump back inside the shed. An almighty clatter. Don’t care. Ride off without looking back. Cycling fast, swerving wildly at a twisted bit of muffler rearing up like a petrified snake and righting yourself hurtling on but in less than three minutes the tyre is flat, again; now you’re speeding on the rim and feeling every jeering bump. You fling the bike down in disgust, it’s not going to work. Turn back to the window. Yep, still watching. Of course. The little girl inside you screams. You sweep your hands out theatrically before the carcass of your useless bike: behold. You’re going to have to go back, whether he likes it or not.
A loud rap on his workroom door.
‘I’m stuck.’
‘So I see.’
‘You’ll have to drive me home or I’m here all night. And you’ve got a lot of books.’
Despite himself, the snort of a laugh.
The door snaps open. Car keys are in his hand. The voice is low, warning, but there’s just a hint of a smile.
‘Never, ever mention that you’ve found this place.’
‘What’ll you give me?’ You grin, can’t help it, naughtied up. ‘My uncle knows the inside of every house in this valley … except this one.’
The shudder is almost visible. You eye the book in his pocket. He clamps his hand protectively to the little Victorian volume and turns on his heel, to the car.
‘Your reward is a lift home which I’ve really got no time for because I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to finish. Tonight.’
He pats his pocket, his back to you.
‘And besides, she may have something to teach me. Thanks for that.’
Lesson 58
They who are little spoken of in the world at large
You’ve overtaken him, leaping into the passenger seat before he’s near his car. Bec is flurrying all over you with snuffles and licks, all the unconditional love which you return, laughing in relief; at least someone appreciates you in this place.
‘You’re very … alive … aren’t you?’ the man says in bemused distaste, as he starts the ignition.
‘And you’re not?’
Annoyance is smoothing your self-consciousness, and being in a car, and with a dog; if you were in any other situation you’d never be able to talk like this. Just the careful way he’s dressed would usually stumble your talk—all he’d need is a Gauloises to complete the image and Lune has told you, wild-eyed, about the men who smoke them. He takes a deep breath.
‘I’ll drop you on the outskirts of Beddington. And remember, you’ll never be able to come back here, I’ll see to that. Don’t even think about it.’
Intrigued. By all of it. Too much you don’t know and it’s right at your doorstep and you’ve got weeks of holidays ahead of youand a home you need to escape and he’s reeling you in and has no idea of it.
His voice is smooth and sure, a hidden creek overarched by the bush, strong and cool and self-sufficient. You, on the other hand, are a desert before him: wide open, ready, aching for nourishment. And he smiled, he laughed—was it once, twice—you got him to do it, just.
The car roars through a cathedral of trees, you’ve never driven so fast.
‘Whoo hooooo!’ You’re suddenly laughing, winding down your window and butting the wind with your face.
‘Get your head in,’ he
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