by Hazel Osmond
Back out in Tyneforth, he bought some thick gloves and had a wander to get his bearings. Despite the number of charity shops, the place had a prosperous feel to it, modern supermarkets down by the river and then the older buildings stretching up the hill. The architecture was a jumble of ages and styles, but the overall impression was of old stone and old brick. He poked his head inside the ancient abbey that dominated the market square and made a note of any cafés or sandwich shops where Jennifer might get her lunch and where he could ‘accidentally’ bump into her.
He could have been in any market town in any shire in England, except for the soundtrack of that accent: ‘I had a one of them’, ‘He went off for to buy a paper’, ‘That lad needs fed’.
Feeling a long way from home, he walked back round to the library and, crossing the road, entered a park via an arch commemorating old wars, before passing a war memorial commemorating more recent ones. Down the path he went towards an ornate bandstand and huddled inside it to ring Tess. She sounded chirpy, and first Fran, and then Gabi were put on to talk. As he’d suspected Tess had looked up the village on the Internet and he told her the beer and food at the pub were great, the cottage was great, on Monday he was going up to Hadrian’s Wall.
‘So how are the natives?’ she asked with a laugh.
‘Incomprehensible, but not unfriendly.’
‘They don’t burn southerners for entertainment?’
‘Warmth maybe, but not for fun.’
He felt Tess thaw him out, although the news that Phyllida seemed to be behaving after her tantrum sent a slight chill through him again: he suspected more deviousness, but how was it helping Tess if he voiced that?
They talked for a while longer before Tess had to go.
‘The girls have sent you something,’ she said before she went.
He walked out of the park, not relishing having to ask the Third Party to go and retrieve whatever Tess had sent, but at least he could give Mack some more cash when they met up, because right now he was going to spend what he had left on a couple of fan heaters, an electric blanket and speakers for his iPod to get his music chasing away the deathly quiet of that cottage. In fact, he was going to hoover up as many bits of modern life as he could carry back on the bus without it looking suspiciously like he was a softie with too much money.
The prospect of spending O’Dowd’s money geed him up a bit as he walked towards the shops, but then the realisation hit him that when he caught the last bus to Brindley he’d be back in the cottage by six, hemmed in by all that green.
Three days, he’d barely been here, three days. He could be here two months, perhaps more. How the Hell was he going to handle that?
CHAPTER 11
Mack opened his front door the next morning to find two pints of milk and an incredibly old man. Looking as though he’d been scrubbed and smelling faintly of soap and toothpaste, he was leaning on a stick, and his face, with its watery blue eyes, was dominated by a long, sharp nose.
‘Remove my top for me, would you?’ he said in that funny sing-song accent with the rolling ‘r’s.
‘Your top?’ Mack looked at the man’s jacket and jumper and wondered which one he meant.
‘Aye.’ A jar of horseradish was thrust towards him.
Mack reached out and took the jar, not sure if this was one of his neighbours, or if the old man had travelled some way to land on his doorstep. Perhaps Mack had moved into a cottage whose occupants had traditionally provided this service, just as there were people you could go to in Swiss towns who would tell you whether the fungi you had picked in the woods was safe to eat.
He loosened the lid easily and handed it back. ‘Pleased to meet you, I’m Matt Harper.’
‘I know.’ The man eyed him suspiciously and then walked back down the path very slowly, obviously finding it difficult to hold the jar, his stick and clutch at the railings with his free hand. He stopped at the top of the steps and then slowly bent down and put the jar through the railings on to the path next door.
Ah, so you’re the curtain twitcher. Figures.
He continued his journey down the steps, round the gate post at the bottom, up his own steps and stopped to bend and pick up the jar again, before continuing to his front door.
‘Bye, then,’ Mack said and was ignored as the man pushed at the door and went inside.
Mack went back to the notes he was making on his laptop, deciding that it wasn’t really worth adding: ‘Ancient man next door, unfriendly, eats horseradish.’ The bell rang again.
‘Another top to take off?’ he said as he pulled open the door.
Jennifer Roseby looked startled and then lowered her chin.
Mack felt momentarily nonplussed and then decided that was all right, that was a normal reaction. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I thought you were the man next door.’ Realising that sounded even weirder, he was glad to be distracted by a carrier bag being held out towards him.
‘Oh, goodness, that’s where I left it, in the library. I thought I’d left it on the bus. Thank you so much.’ He pretended to check that his notebook and pen were still in it and then looked up to see she was now holding out a pile of paper, stapled together in one corner.
‘We know you said you only wanted to help backstage, but Finlay would like you to read for the part of Sebastian.’
He felt that saying all that in one go and more or less maintaining eye contact with him had cost her a lot.
‘Finlay can be very persuasive,’ she added with a smile, pushing the script into his hands. He had to stop himself from looking away. In the daylight those scars looked even worse, obscene somehow, like someone had vandalised a picture. When she smiled it did strange, puckering things to them and he hoped his answering smile didn’t look as false as it felt.
She was turning to go, but he knew that he shouldn’t waste the gift of the two of them being alone like this.
‘I hope you’re still not annoyed at me for my stupidity at that first meeting in the pub,’ he said, ‘… and in the library.’
‘Well you could go for the triple,’ she replied, staring at a place on the door frame.
Ouch. Didn’t see that coming.
‘Ah, yes, well, I’m glad you can joke about it. It’s just you still look a bit …’
‘… frosty-faced?’ she said, raising her eyebrows.
Hell, he had been going to say that.
What is wrong with you, are you going through the thesaurus for phrases with face in them?
‘Upset,’ he burbled, ‘I was going to say “upset”.’
‘No, no, I’m not. I didn’t mean to give that impression.’ She stopped and frowned. ‘It’s to do with the scar, near my eye, confuses my facial messages a bit, I think.’
‘Of course, of course,’ he said hurriedly, ‘I understand. So, I’ll see you at the auditions, then?’
She gave him a quick nod and turned to go down the path and he noticed how slim she was, how her clothes were fashionable and her shoes, although casual, were an expensive brand.
She turned back as the man next door suddenly reappeared.
‘Hello, Mr Armstrong. How are you today?’ she said.
‘Fair,’ he replied and stopped level with her, him on one side of the railings, her on the other.
‘Just been meeting your new neighbour.’
‘Reading a paper?’ Mr Armstrong replied, frowning. ‘Why are you telling me that?’
‘No, meeting your new neighbour,’ she repeated, indicating Mack and he saw her little grin and caught her eye and grinned too. She broke the look first, turning her attention back to Mr Armstrong.
‘Going to the shop,’ he said. ‘Bicarb for my cabbage. Have to shift for myself at the weekend.’
‘Here, let me help you.’ She lifted one leg over the railings, then the other, and it was done so swiftly and so elegantly that Mack was not sure it had happened, except there she was, next door. She started to walk beside Mr Armstrong, not grabbing at his arm and making a show
of helping him, but letting the old man lift his hand on to her arm himself to steady his progress.
At that moment she reminded him of Tess, and he quickly went back inside and shut the door, not even saying goodbye. He stood back from the window watching the slow progress the pair of them made towards the shop, feeling grubby that he’d made her say that about her facial expressions, but knowing there was a lot more grubbiness to come.
‘Seems a nice man, your neighbour,’ Jennifer said to Mr Armstrong when she was sure that Matt Harper had gone back inside.
Mr Armstrong nodded. ‘More decent than her in the shop, I hope.’
‘Writes books about walking. That’s good, isn’t it, healthy exercise, you’ll approve of that?’
She heard Mr Armstrong click his tongue in that particularly judgemental way he had.
‘Walking’s no indication of good character,’ he said, ‘everyone can walk. Her in the shop, I’ve seen her out walking. Hitler, Pol Pot, Stalin. They could all walk. Even Judas Iscariot, the great betrayer, he walked.’
Unable to think of anything to say to that, Jennifer took the opportunity of arriving at the shop to gently remove her arm from Mr Armstrong’s, open the door for him and then wish him goodbye.
As she walked back out of the village she stopped at the Peter Clarke bench and wondered what had made her say that about her facial expressions. Now he’d think she was looking for sympathy. He’d certainly looked sad after she’d said it. Or it might have been uneasiness: she had, after all, just picked him up on his face-related Tourette’s. He had something going on there anyway, under all that bright breeziness.
Those brown eyes, though, they got right inside you, particularly when he grinned.
The embarrassment of what she’d said to him came over her again and she looked at the view for a while and then laughed. Where on earth had he bought those jeans? In a properly cut pair he’d look, well, better even than the hills she was looking at now. His clothes seemed to be wearing him, not the other way round. Didn’t they have proper clothes shops in Bristol?
That enthusiastic delivery of his was quite dork-like too. Yet overall the effect he was having on her wasn’t of a dork with dreadful fashion sense.
She laughed again, but this time at herself for trying to get to the bottom of what she liked about him. He was just one of those men who had ‘it’ in bagfuls.
She took her time walking home, allowing herself to dwell on those eyes of his and hoping that his acting was better than his fashion sense.
CHAPTER 12
‘Good turnout,’ Finlay said, peeking out into the hall. A murmur of conversation drifted into the room. ‘I’m always amazed they want to put up with me bossing them around again.’
‘Oh come off it, Finlay,’ Jennifer said, ‘they’d read the phone book if you asked them.’
Finlay’s laugh started off low and ended almost as a hoot and he closed the door and came and sat back in his chair, scooping up several biscuits from the plate as he did so. Popping one in his mouth, he chewed rapidly, his face, all planes and bones and twinkling eyes.
‘Lot of auditions to get through today.’ He flicked some biscuit crumbs off a list in front of him, ‘But at least we’ve got one part sorted already. You get to play Viola.’
‘No,’ Jennifer said sharply.
‘Ah, Jennifer, I remember when you were in my drama class in the Upper Sixth, you made me cry with—’
‘It was a long time ago,’ she said, as if time alone was the only reason she wasn’t going to take the part.
Finlay put his teacher’s voice on. ‘Jennifer Roseby, there is no one who can do that part like you can. And you played her in that production at Manchester, I remember Ray telling me he’d braved the M6 to go and see it.’
‘I think Lisa would make a good Viola, and Jocelyn, though it pains me to say it, should probably be Olivia.’
‘Stop trying to distract me, Jennifer. Let’s get back to thinking about Viola.’
She said ‘No,’ again, this time more sharply, feeling swamped by the fear that always took hold of her whenever she thought about standing on a stage again. She put one of the biscuits in her mouth to shut down the conversation, but it felt like a wad of cotton wool and she could barely chew or swallow it down.
‘It’s just that first step, isn’t it?’ Finlay said and gave her the gentlest of nudges.
She couldn’t answer.
They sat quietly for a while before Finlay suddenly stole the last biscuit and sprang to his feet.
‘You know, Viola’s not that good a part,’ he said briskly. ‘I was thinking about The Merchant of Venice next year. I think you’re more suited to Portia.’
Jennifer felt the fear subside, but there was disappointment lurking under it. She’d been allowed to retreat. Again.
Finlay waved the biscuit around. ‘OK, brace yourself: let’s wheel the first one in.’
Mack gave the room a quick once-over. Two-bar fire, load of old paperbacks on the windowsill, furniture that had seen better days. The walls were painted an alarming blue colour – hey, that must be why it was imaginatively called the Blue Room – and on one of them a large cork noticeboard showed details of forthcoming events. There was a strong smell of damp and burning dust from the fire.
Out of the window it was possible to see a graveyard that belonged to the church next door, and in the flare of a security light the high, old gravestones looked like people standing round shoulder to shoulder. It made him feel as if he was being watched and judged by something and he turned away.
‘So glad you could come, really glad.’ Finlay advanced on him with a smile that made Mack feel as if he was fundamental to Finlay’s continuing happiness. Behind him, sitting at a large table, Jennifer had her chin down.
‘Oh dear,’ Finlay said, looking at Mack’s feet. ‘Hurt yourself?’
Mack realised he must have limped into the room.
Think of an excuse that doesn’t involve you not being used to walking.
‘Just turned my foot over. Stupid really. Loose stone when I was up on the Wall. It’s quite spectacular,’ he added enthusiastically.
For a wall.
‘Isn’t it, though? Which walk did you tackle?’
‘Just a gentle stroll from Housesteads to Steel Rigg and back.’
Seven miles. Seven pigging miles.
‘Ah, some of the best bits.’
Jennifer lifted her chin and nodded. ‘Marvellous views,’ she said.
Yeah, marvellous views if my feet hadn’t been bleeding. And let’s face it, it’s good, but it’s not the Great Wall of China.
He noticed again how well dressed Jennifer was. Grey cashmere sweater today and grey trousers with a faint pinstripe. They were well-cut trousers too, trendy. He tried not to think about what his jeans must look like. She wasn’t wearing jewellery, even though her ears were pierced. So, dark clothes, no jewellery and just lipgloss. Interesting. It was tempting to say she was making the classic attempt to fade into the background, but that trendiness was intriguing. Like she had started to fight back.
Best not to think about that.
They were both looking at him expectantly.
‘Now, Matt,’ Finlay said, ‘we know you don’t want to act … but the actress we have in mind for Viola is young and, of course, Sebastian is her twin brother. So, as you’re here, a gift from the god of drama landed in our laps, as it were,’ Finlay’s laugh made Mack wonder if he was slightly unhinged, ‘well, silly not to try and persuade you. Fancy reading some of Sebastian’s lines for us? Got your script?’
Finlay’s tone was not wheedling or hectoring, but it made Mack lift up the script and meekly hand it over and then, when Finlay handed it back, scan through what he was being asked to read. He looked towards Jennifer and made sure he wetted his lips a little as if he was really nervous.
‘Perhaps if you stood up,’ she said encouragingly and so he did.
He was pleased with himself when he’d finis
hed. It wouldn’t have been possible to make more of a mess of the speech if he’d cut it up into small pieces and thrown it about the room. He’d run on lines that should have stopped. He’d stopped lines that should have run on. He’d stressed the wrong words, gulped down others. At one point he’d stopped completely.
Throughout, Finlay and Jennifer’s faces had been devoid of any expression, and when he finally finished, slowing his whirling arms and bringing his erratic breathing under control, Finlay had said softly, ‘That was quite something.’
‘Quite, quite something,’ Jennifer agreed.
He waited for them to say that perhaps, after all, it might be better for him to stay backstage and he was getting ready to look slightly disappointed when Finlay said, ‘It won’t work, Matt. We know what you’re up to.’
Whaaaaat?
‘Yes,’ Jennifer said, ‘you’ve been rumbled.’
He was sure that his face was now registering something between panic and shock. He stared at them. Had someone sussed he was a journalist?
No, hang on … they don’t look angry, in fact Jennifer’s face suggests she’s amused. What do they mean then? Say something, you ruddy idiot.
‘Rumbled?’
Finlay let out a deranged laugh, and he saw that Jennifer had started to laugh quietly too.
‘Only someone who is very good at acting could be that bad, Matt,’ Finlay said, ‘believe me, I’ve seen enough terrible performers to know, and you’re not one of them. I mean, all credit to you, a quite inspired peace of pretence, but the actor in you snuck out every now and then.’
‘It did?’
‘When you weren’t whirling about, your stance was very good, lots of grace,’ Jennifer chipped in. ‘And although you tended to grab at the lines, every now and then you gave them space, got the rhythm just right, stressed the important words.’ She darted a twinkling look at him. ‘Marjorie would have been proud of you.’
