Long exposure to Luc and his family, combined with much living in France, had made the cheek-to-cheek double kiss almost automatic, but I had to remind myself that in rural Dorset it probably meant you had to get engaged or something.
He shook his head. The slight, but nippy, breeze was tossing his hair about and he pushed it back with a hand. ‘Yes, sorry, I know what you mean, it’s just that I’m only a couple of miles from home, and the idea of driving that short a distance is odd.’
‘I thought you lived in Bridport?’ I remembered him saying something about it not being easy to find Patrick accommodation because of where he lived.
‘Well, I do, but I’m staying in Christmas Steepleton while I’m doing this location work. With my sister, Thea – she’s got a little flat over her shop. It’s easier than coming in every day on the bus.’
‘Oh.’
‘So, goodbye, then. I’ll come over in a couple of days and bring you the contract, show Keenan the place, that sort of thing.’
I sort of held out a hand and went for a cheek kiss simultaneously. He saw me lean in at the same time as his hand went out, and we ended up punching each other in the ribcage whilst banging our heads together as we tried to pull out of the ‘kiss’ situation without making contact. ‘Ow,’ I said, although it hadn’t been hard enough to hurt.
‘Sorry.’ Gabriel rubbed his chest. ‘That was…’
‘Awkward, yes. My fault, too much French kissing. Oh, no, I don’t mean that, I mean I’ve spent a lot of time in France. I teach French. And my husband was French. Is French,’ I gabbled, trying to cover up the fact that my face was so hot that it was probably summoning help from nearby villages, like a beacon on the cliffs. ‘So, yes. Goodbye.’
I got into the car and drove out of the car park with my window wound down to try to cool my cheeks.
6
A few days later, on a wet and windy day that made Dorset seem a bit less charming and a bit more exposed, I drove through to Bournemouth to buy Patrick a hay net. The orchard was getting muddy, except for the patch at the top of the slope, and I began to worry that he wouldn’t be getting enough food from the remaining grass.
When I drove back, windscreen wipers flailing ineffectually against the rain, there was a car parked in the gateway. Patrick had his head over the gate and was staring at it as though he’d never seen a wheeled vehicle before, and I had to inch past to get my car to its usual resting place near the front gate.
The rain thundered on the car roof. The lane was practically a stream, water cascading down the hill towards the ford and mingling with the leaves that were starting to fall. The whole thing had become a slick surface of brown, interwoven with little rivulets, like a map of the Nile delta done in miniature outside my door.
As soon as I got out of the car, the doors to the other car opened and Gabriel and Keenan came dashing out. Gabriel had his coat collar turned up and Keenan was holding a macintosh spread out over his head, like a tiny portable tent.
‘You should have rung,’ I said, opening the front door. ‘Said you were coming, and I’d have been in.’
‘It’s fine.’ Keenan dusted rain off the top of his thinning hair. ‘I really wanted to look at the outside anyway, get a feel for the place, do a bit of logistics work. I think it will be great, but we’ll need a small crew, maybe bring the minibus down. We won’t get the lorries down this lane – in fact, the minibus might be a squeeze.’
‘And Larch won’t walk in.’ Gabriel was looking around at the walls now. With the recent drop in temperature and increase in humidity, they’d assumed a kind of slickness that the woodlice were using to stage team luge competitions. ‘We might have to form a human chain to carry her down from the main road.’
Keenan sighed. ‘Yeah, for a nature lover, she really doesn’t like being outside much, does she?’
‘Or getting wet, getting cold, wind, too much sunshine, noisy seagulls and most other wildlife. Are we actually sure that it’s nature she likes and not just photographs of fields?’
Gabriel gave me a sideways grin and I realised that I was being included in this insider talk for a reason. It was an introduction to the cast in a roundabout way, presumably so that I wouldn’t be all star-struck and breathless when I met them.
He needn’t have bothered. I’d met famous people before and, essentially, they were mostly just wallies who were good at one particular thing. Actors wouldn’t be any different, just better looking.
‘So, can I have a tour?’ Keenan carefully draped the wet raincoat over the back of a chair. I’d led them through to the kitchen, which was marginally warmer than the rest of the house, although the damp air clung more in here. The flagstones shone with the water, and condensation was making little net curtains over the windows.
‘Of course. Gabriel, I’ve ordered some hay for Patrick. They’re going to deliver it tomorrow. You might want to tell… Granny Mary.’ It felt awkward, giving a personalised name to a woman I’d never met, although, the way Gabriel used it, it was more as if Granny Mary were her actual name than an honorific.
‘Good thinking. I’ll text her later. I’m going over to see her tomorrow, so, no doubt, she’ll have things to tell me then. I think she’s been quite worried about Patrick, so it will be a relief.’
‘How is she doing?’ I put the kettle on the stove. Keenan was lurking about in the doorway as though he was trying to urge me on with the house tour. I couldn’t really blame him – until the stove really got going it was a bit like being at the bottom of a well in here.
‘She’s coming on nicely. Thank you.’
‘And Patrick is the horse?’ Keenan asked, still hovering.
‘Yes. He’s just out there.’ I pointed to the streaming window.
Keenan looked towards it and jumped back with a little scream. ‘Oh, dear God, it’s like something out of a horror film!’
Patrick had his nose right up against the window and was looking in with his pirate eye. He blew a long snort, which sent a spray up the glass, and then shook himself impressively. He’d got a full winter coat now, which made him look twice as wide, and a series of muddy patches where he’d been rolling under the trees.
‘Are you sure that’s a horse? It’s not a cow doing impressions?’ Keenan asked, with nervous apprehension in every word. ‘Because I’m beginning to think the pig idea was maybe better.’
‘He’s fine,’ I said, leading Keenan off to show him the rest of the house. As I ushered him through the depressingly short series of rooms, I realised that I’d actually grown quite fond of Patrick. Although probably in the same way as one would grow fond of an occasional stalker, or a nasty fungal infection – they were a presence that you got used to.
‘And that’s pretty much Harvest Cottage.’ I concluded the tour with us traipsing back down the still bare-floored staircase, our footsteps rattling in competition with the rain on the roof.
Keenan bit his lip. ‘You’re right, Gabe!’ he called. ‘Pretty much has serial killer written all over it.’
