darkness again.
She ran her hand around the circumference of the metal fixture before flicking up the switch. ‘God bless, Mrs Cunningham,’ she said, as she did every morning – and every night.
A cheerful rat-a-tat brought Jennifer to the front door. She could see the pale blue reflection of Graham’s Triumph through the glass panel at the end of the hall, and threw the door wide in welcome.
‘You’re early on the go.’ She smiled, tucking a golden wisp of curl behind her ear.
Graham glanced at his watch. ‘Ten’s too early?’ he asked, his kind features wary.
‘No, of course not, Graham. You’re welcome any time. Come on in, we’re having breakfast.’
Jennifer led him into the kitchen, and motioned to a chair. ‘Coffee?’
Graham nodded, bending to squeeze Jim’s shoulder. He fought an instinctive shudder as he felt the sharpness of bone beneath his hand.
‘How’s it going, pardner?’
Jim stirred his porridge half-heartedly. ‘It’s going,’ he answered. ‘I’d be happier if I could get something decent to eat inside me, though.’
Jennifer poured a fresh coffee from the percolator, an acquisition which had brought them such delight in happier times.
‘God, what’re you complaining about?’ Graham asked, rummaging in a battered briefcase. ‘Wish I had someone to serve me a good bowl o’ porridge once in a while.’
‘Once in a while would be enough for you,’ Jennifer chided, setting his coffee before him and sitting down. She smiled to take the sting from her words, and Graham’s heart lurched at the desolation in her eyes.
‘Well, no doubt there’s a woman out there ready to make an honest man out o’ me. I’ll bide my time, though. No sense in rushing.’ Graham resolved to keep his tone light. He could hardly bear it otherwise.
‘Are we talking about the same man?’ Jennifer smiled. Graham Kerr was the most un-typical accountant she had ever met. Rarely still for a moment, he had proved the perfect foil for Jim’s steadfast, slower approach. Between them they had built a thriving, successful business, and now Graham was having to take the full brunt of its demands on his own wide shoulders.
‘Indeed we are talking about the same man,’ he answered, his eyes crinkling as a ready smile spread itself across his features. ‘You’d be proud of me these days,’ he assured Jim, patting his friend’s hand. ‘I’m at my desk for hours at a time! I’ve given up all this rushing about as though there’s no tomorr …’ His voice tailed off as he caught Jennifer’s wide-eyed alarm at his thoughtless use of the expression.
‘Bloody hell,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry, Jim. Jen …’
Jim shook his head. ‘Away with you now,’ he said. ‘God, it’s getting so no-one’s comfortable saying ANYTHING around me any more.’ He threw down his spoon. ‘I’m sick of it!’
‘Jim!’ Jennifer reached for his hand, but he pulled roughly from her. She reached for her coffee mug, looking down and away from them both.
With difficulty Jim rose, tightening the cord on his dressing-gown. Graham held his breath as he watched his friend stumble towards the kitchen window. He knew better than to offer his help. Finally, leaning on the counter-top for support, Jim spoke again.
‘It’s a fine morning,’ he said, his voice trembling with the effort of the movement.
‘It is,’ Graham agreed, forcing a cheerfulness back into his tone, a cheerfulness he no longer felt. He would never get used to this, never get used to seeing Jim wither in front of him; wither and die.
Last week, in a quiet hour while Jim slept, Jennifer had confided in him that she’d be glad when it was over. He had wanted to censure her for her honesty, but in his heart of hearts he too had wished it over. And in that moment, he had died a little himself.
‘And I’ve got just the news to make the morning even finer,’ he breezed on, determined to try – for all of their sakes. He shot a smile of shared sympathy at Jennifer. She caught it and nodded slightly, grateful for the gesture.
‘Well,’ Jim said, reaching for his wife’s arm, ‘don’t keep us waiting.’
Jennifer stood and helped her husband back into his chair, wrapping the blanket he had thrown from his shoulders around him. He tugged it away once more, and she sat, refusing to acknowledge this small rebellion.
Graham cleared a space on the white Formica top and pulled out a manila file. ‘You know that Atkinsons have been scouting around the area? Well, yesterday their “man about town” dropped by the office, Jim. They’ve clients in London who’ve been buying up property all over the place. They’re set on having a chain of bistros from Land’s End to John O’Groats.’
‘Bistros, no less!’ Jennifer interjected, smiling at the thought.
‘Don’t laugh, Jen,’ Graham said. ‘If they’ve come this far north, they’re not playing at it. Anyway, Jack Buchanan – that’s the bloke from Atkinsons - was telling me that they’re chock-a-block in the Glasgow office, and he was wondering if we’d like a crack at handling the account. He more or less let me know we could charge double our normal fees and, as long as we handled the first one right, they’d use us as their base in the Highlands. We could have accounts as far as Inverness. They’re not intending to let the grass grow under their feet, that’s for sure! What d’you think?’
Jim looked thoughtful. ‘What property do they have in mind?’
‘Wait, OK? Just wait a minute when I tell you - before you jump down my throat.’
Jim’s eyes were wary, but he nodded.
‘The Whig,’ Graham breathed, turning sideways to face his partner, crossing his long legs in front of him.
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Jim protested, his voice unsteady still. ‘Maisie’ll never sell the Whig. It’s her life.’
Jennifer, too, was shaking her head at the idea. ‘I can’t see it, Graham,’ she said. ‘Not the Whig.’
‘Well, dear friends and colleague,’ Graham continued, smiling mischievously at them both, ‘Mr Buchanan is one step ahead of us there. It seems he’s had a word in Maisie’s ear already, and she’s definitely considering it. Definitely!’ he added, wagging a finger in emphasis.
‘We-ell …’ Jim exhaled, slowly. ‘That’s a turnup for the books.’
‘A very lucrative turn-up,’ Graham reminded him. ‘And it’s just the beginning. They’re planning six more over the next eighteen months. They could become a major client, Jim, and Atkinsons would be happy to stay on the sidelines. No interference from them, as long as we’re diligent.’
‘No interference from me either,’ Jim said, smiling ruefully.
‘Come on, Jim,’ Graham pleaded. ‘Don’t talk like that. There’s always hope.’ He wished desperately that it were so.
‘There’s
