Little Fingers! (6 page)

* *
*

Chapter
5

The first
person I meet in Hanburgh is Tom Willows. He is walking along the
beck with a spade in his hand.

I am watching
the ducks and swans diving and scratching in the mill
pond.

He walks
slowly, as if surveying his estate, and as if anyone discovered
there should be noted and accounted for.

“
Good
morning,” he calls. “Prospecting for lunch?”

I smile.
“After London, this is a peaceful change.”

“
Ah, you are
from London are you? The Big City. The smoke.”

“
I am not
sure that we ever call it that.”

“
Probably
not. Probably not. So what brings you here? I am Tom Willows, by
the way.” He moves forward and offers his hand. He scrutinises me
intently. He gets right inside my guard, as if he wants to climb
into me to rummage around and understand what I am about. It is not
overtly threatening, but I feel uncomfortable nonetheless. I
recognise it as a technique.

“
I am taking
some time out. I am thinking of living here.”

“
Do you have
any connection with the area? Any relations?”

“
Not that I
know of.”

“
So why
Hanburgh?”

“
It is in a
part of England that is rather off the map. Different. I fancy
living off the map for a while.”

“
Off the map,
eh?” He laughs. “And there are some people who think that Hanburgh
is the centre of the world.” He laughs again.

“
And you?
Have you always lived here?”

“
Always,
always. My father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, many
generations. We have always lived off the land around here, with
greater or lesser success. It is very fertile farming land,
……..and, “ he looks me directly in the eyes in an almost
challenging way, “I had better get back to it. Good luck with your
house-hunting, ……….”

“
Julia. Julia
Blackburn.”

“
Good luck
with your house-hunting, Julia, and we will no doubt bump into each
other again if you decide to live here.” He walks on several yards,
and waves his spade over his shoulder cheerfully but dismissively
in a salute, without looking around. A minute later, he waves it
again to someone he has spotted across the village, and he wanders
over to talk to them.

* *
*

Mary is very
relaxed after a day lounging on the beaches of Cap D'Agde, forty
minutes from here. We have bought a Smart Roadster to get us
around, or mostly to get Mary around - I spend most of my time
typing this. We love the Smart car and, with the rainy season
arriving anytime now, we may have to buy a covered Smart Car to
keep us dry. A couple of Smart cars, that describes us well -
deceptively sophisticated, chic, no room for past baggage, Mary
laying herself wide-open, me more enclosed and egg-like.

Mary has heard
of Cap d'Agde's reputation for sexual promiscuity, and has been
indulging in a bit of voyeuristic tourism. She did not come across
anything noteworthy, but the thrill added energy to the
day.

So, in this
late September sun, she lay out on the beach, watched and waited.
The light breeze ruffled her skin. The sunlight was intense. The
sea was still warm enough to swim in, while becoming increasingly
restless. She read, she slept, she sipped her water. She awaited a
proposition from a beautiful young man or woman. I have broadened
her tastes. Would she accept it? I don't know. Maybe. After twenty
years of playing it straight, the spell broken, Cinders might like
a ball.

She slipped
back into the house fifteen minutes ago. She is nervous about
interrupting me. I am the one still at work, and paying for this
adventure. I wish she were more at ease with me, that she viewed us
as one, not as two parties to a contract which has to be balanced
and equal. She starts to prepare dinner, pouring herself a glass of
rosé. I stop my writing. She smiles at me, and brings me a glass of
wine.

“
Was it all
you were hoping for?”

“
No, there
was nothing,” she smiles innocently, “but it was wonderful,
peaceful. I wish you could have come. Will you come next time? You
do not have to write every day, do you? After all, he is not paying
you to do this. You are a free agent.”

“
It must be
my work ethic. I cannot bear taking a holiday until after I have
finished my task. You must help me. Force me to take a
break.”

“
In that
case, come back with me tomorrow. We will have a picnic, drink some
wine, and scandalise the strays on the beach with our passion for
each other. If we can find the right beach, we can even make love
out there in the open, in front of other people. I have never done
that. The wildest time I have ever had is with you, me and Frank.”
She laughs. “Poor Frank, he really did not know where to put
himself. And he so wanted to. A gentleman in the bedroom is a bit
of a liability, don't you think?” She comes over and strokes my
hair and my neck, then sits on my lap. I fear that she is getting
heavier.

“
I do not
think that two women fondling each other on the beach will change
their world perspective.”

“
No, but we
will enjoy it, and we have not had much time together since we have
been here. I miss you, Julia. What you are doing is immensely
important, but so are you. Let us enjoy this little bit of heaven.
It will not be for ever.”

“
Why do you
say that?”

“
We have
complicated lives, you, me, Frank. This is a moment of simplicity.
Let us savour it.”

I do not like
the intimation of finality, fatality.

“
Are you
thinking of leaving?”

“
No, not yet,
but I do need to have more of you, to be a part of you. At the
moment, I am some useless adornment that gets to wander off and be
frivolous while you are hard at work. It does not make me feel good
about myself, and I am concerned that I will run out of things to
do. I have worked all my life, Julia. This interlude is idyllic,
but it will soon become tiresome if it drags on. We need to find a
way of living with each other, you, me and Frank. Frank has been
incredibly generous. He has allowed us this time to sort ourselves
out between us, to forge our relationship. When we get back to
Hanburgh, we must concentrate on building a special relationship
with Frank too, so that we can all three be at peace. Do you think
we can do that?”

“
We have
discussed it many times, Mary. I have said that I will do anything
I can.” The mention of Hanburgh has introduced an anxiety into my
surroundings. England, cold, wet, intrigue, murder, complications.
What I really want to do is to have Mary to myself out here
forever. How do I persuade her? I don't think I shall. Mary is
affectionately accommodating, but you cannot deflect her from her
inclinations as to what is best for her. She is a typical Libran;
“maybe” means “no”.

We go for a
walk in the garden and into the vineyards. The grapes have been
harvested, leaving the occasional bunches that have been overlooked
by the blind stilted machinery that crops them. We collect them up
into a bag, and take them home. The locals dismiss these gamay
grapes as being unfit to eat. However, from the experience of four
bottles from two different vineyards, they are somewhat better to
eat than to drink in this particular village, at least.

* *
*

The house I am
interested in is Hanburgh House. It is up Hanburgh Hill, below
Hanburgh Hall. I noticed the For Sale sign as I was touring the
village. The top gate is locked, solid and too high to see over.
The bottom gate is open, so I wander in. They have a strange
concept of security around here.

The house is
looking run down. It may have been uninhabited for a while. The
grass is long, the weeds have risen high in the flower beds, the
roses have not been pruned, the apples have not been picked. Two
windows are replaced with hardboard on the ground floor. I wonder
if it is supposed to be haunted. Having a few ghosts of my own, I
feel some affinity to a possessed house. I ring the bell, and knock
on the front door immediately afterwards. I never trust doorbells
unless I can hear them. Silence. I listen for a footstep, a shout,
I watch for a light. Nothing.

I walk around
the house down a mossy concrete path in the shadow of the walls.
There is a basket ball hoop deprived of its net on the back wall, a
bank of ivy, a single stable, a greenhouse, then a double-garage.
An open door leads into a tiny damp courtyard and to the back door.
I knock there too. No response again. I try the door. It is locked.
I stand back and look at the windows facing onto the courtyard.
There are many windows, reflecting the sky. I search for faces. No
faces, although I can imagine them.

By the time I
return to the front of the house, I have decided that this is
provisionally the house I want to buy. Maybe the interior will be a
disappointment. I will ask for a viewing, and hope that no-one else
is on its trail.

I return to
the village, and march into Marshalls Estate Agents. Vincent (Vice)
Marshall greets me. He is a fleshy man, with pockets to
feed.

“
Good
afternoon.”

“
Good
afternoon. Could you help me?”

“
I will do my
best.” He gives a strained, practical smile.

“
I was
wondering about Hanburgh House. Is it still for sale?”

“
There is a
great deal of interest in it, but yes, it is still
available.”

He is lying
about the level of interest. Years of brokering deals would have
provided me with that intuition, even if I could not overhear his
thoughts. He is thinking “Play it cool, Vince, play it cool. Nice
looking girl. Clearly plenty of money (will check in a minute).
Might be able to get a premium. Stick to the higher
numbers.”

His face
betrays none of these thoughts. He is a hardened semi-professional.
I would guess that the business has been handed down to him, or
that a friend got him into it, or something. He does not seem to be
a natural-born estate agent.

“
Do you have
any details?”

“
Surely,” he
replies, “now where are they?” He lays his podgy hand on them
quickly enough. £450,000. That is quite a price for this
area.

“
To whom does
it belong?”

“
The house is
being sold by the family.”

“
Can I have a
look at it?”

“
Surely. We
can go now if you like. I just need to lock up.”

We are back at
the house within ten minutes.

“
It is a very
spacious house. Eight bedrooms. Are you interested in it for
yourself or for a family?”

The empty
rooms echo.

“
For
myself.”

“
Oh.”

“
I like to
have spare rooms.”

“
For when
people visit you?”

“
To lie
empty. I like to be surrounded by empty rooms.”

“
Ah. Each to
his own. Her own,” he corrects himself.

“
If I were to
offer £425,000, do you foresee any difficulty?”

The rooms are
all of a goodly size, with plenty of nooks and crannies and obscure
rooms - butler's pantries, dark corridors, single toilets, cellars,
back stairs. I love it.

“
I would have
to put it to the family.”

“
Please do
so.”

The next day,
Vice phones me on my mobile to say that the family has agreed to my
offer. They must be dancing in the streets, but I really cannot be
bothered to negotiate such things. I want a big house in the
village that conforms to my tastes, and I want it now.

While the sale
for Hanburgh House went through at record speed, because the
Markham family was desperate for the money and I was paying cash, I
was staying at the Hanburgh Arms, a white-washed eighteenth century
coaching inn (I know you know this, after all we spent enough time
there together. I am just adding in some final details for the sake
of the completeness).

The rooms are
well kept, and rarely used. Hanburgh is not a tourist village, and
no-one hires a room for the night at the pub except occasionally to
save money on business travel. As a business hotel, it misses the
necessary formula. There is no bathroom, shower or toilet en suite,
the rooms are small and low - if you are taller than 5'9”, you have
to duck. They have TVs in the rooms, but no porn channels, not that
I wanted them personally.

I spent four
weeks there; four increasingly lonely weeks. I can be solitary in
my own house away from anyone, so long as I am surrounded by my own
things, by myself. Living in a room that is no more than 12' by 10'
hurts. What do I do? I continually visit my new house, I walk in
the village and greet passers-by, I introduce myself in the shops
and explain that I am moving into the area (“Ah, you are the one
buying Hanburgh House!”), I drive around the countryside, I visit
the towns, but I cannot even buy anything. Where would I put
it?