Page 32

Chapter 32

February 1931

Ann was so preoccupied with mental arithmetic as she walked home from the shops that at first she didn’t see the man standing outside 25 Library Terrace.

She only became aware of him when he reached for the latch on the gate.

He looked up the path to the front door, and she saw him hesitate.

Her heart quickened.

This was only to be expected after so many years, she thought.

He paused, and then stood up straight as though on parade, opened the gate and started to walk along the path.

She held her breath, and watched, transfixed, as he stopped halfway and looked across to the cherry tree she had planted with Father in 1908.

The flower bed beneath the tree was in an abandoned state, a tangle of dried-up geranium stalks that she should have tidied up last autumn.

The man touched the bark on the trunk of the tree and looked up at the network of twigs and buds above.

He reached up for the end of one branch and bent it down close to his face to examine it before letting it go back to its original position.

And then he stepped back onto the path, taking care not to crush the geraniums, despite their neglect.

He was three yards from the front door when she began to run.

The library books in her basket clattered against the wickerwork, battering the corners off-square as they jolted up and down with every step.

He stood at the green front door, looking at it, with his hand raised, but for some reason not lifting the unpolished brass knocker.

As she got to the open gate she saw that his overcoat was not new and his boots were worn down at the heel.

All this she took in quickly, and she knew then, from his stance, that this was not Finlay, and that what her heart wanted was not what the evidence was showing her.

He heard her footsteps, turned to look at her, and lifted his cap.

The cap should have told her.

Finlay would never have worn a cap like that, not unless he was playing golf with Father and the sun was going to get in his eyes.

It was difficult to guess this man’s age; in his forties, perhaps?

Hair greying at the sides.

Maybe five foot nine, definitely not six feet tall.

Weary, accepting his situation, not challenging it.

‘Can I help you?’ she said.

He smiled, but the smile didn’t get as far as his eyes.

‘I was admiring your cherry tree.’

‘I saw.’

‘Wrong time of year to be pruning it, but it could do with some attention.’

‘You are a gardener?’

‘No. Not officially anyway, I just like trees. I’m a painter and decorator, been in business for almost twelve years, with good references.

’

‘And you’re looking for work?

’ She saw his shoulders lose some of their squareness and watched him prepare for rejection.

‘I know this is an unexpected call, and you may have someone in mind for your jobs already .?.?.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she realised as she spoke that she really was sorry, ‘but I’m afraid I’m not in a position to have any decorating done at the moment.

’

He nodded and stepped away from the door.

‘I apologise for disturbing you.’

‘You aren’t, actually.

It’s just that I don’t want anything done right now, this month or next.

But if you leave me your details, I’ll be in touch when I’m ready.

’

‘Thank you, that’s very kind.

’

‘There isn’t much work about at the moment, I suppose?

’

He shook his head.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, unsure why she was apologising.

‘Do you have a card I could take?’ The first small drops of rain spotted the path and she turned her face to the sky to feel the tiny speckles kiss her cheeks.

‘I’ve run out, I’m afraid, but I can write my details down for you.

’

‘Let me get the door open and I’ll find a pencil.

’ She found her keys in her coat pocket and unlocked the door, pushing it hard at the point where she knew it always stuck in the frame.

It didn’t budge. She tried again.

‘Bother. I usually use the back door because of this.’ She relocked it.

‘Follow me.’

They threaded their way up the path at the side of the house in single file and through the tall gate that led to the back garden.

She turned the knob on the scullery door and went in.

The man stayed on the back doorstep.

‘Come in! You need to get out of the rain, and I don’t want all the heat to escape.

’ She saw him hesitate.

‘Please. It will get cold in here if the door is open, and there’s nothing here worth stealing.

’ It was a phrase she had used many times before.

She watched his face stiffen, but it was too late to apologise; the damage was done.

She rushed on as though the words hadn’t been said.

‘You look cold. And we’ll both get soaked if we stay outside.

’

He stepped into the scullery as instructed, and closed the door behind him.

Ann had unlocked the door to the kitchen, and was already at the dresser, opening a drawer.

‘Oh dear, this pencil is blunt.’ She tried another.

‘Blunt again.’ She guddled about in the drawer.

‘I don’t suppose you have a pocket knife?

Mine seems to have gone the way of so many things in this house.

’

She looked back at him.

He was already reaching into his coat pocket.

She wondered fleetingly if this was wise, inviting a stranger into the house, and asking him to use a knife, not ten feet away from her.

She held out two pencils as evidence.

He looked around the kitchen for a bucket.

‘Will I sharpen them into the grate, to keep things tidy?’

‘Please.’ She reached into the drawer again.

‘I might have a few more here for you, if you don’t mind?

’

‘This is an impressive range,’ he said as he moved the heavy fireguard out of the way.

‘More and more people are having these removed and installing new gas cookers instead, but I do like a proper fire in the kitchen.’ He rubbed his hands over the embers.

As he leaned forward she saw that his thick woollen overcoat had created the illusion of a well-built man but there was much less of him than she had realised.

Money must be tight, she thought.

Decorating won’t be on many householders’ list of essential spending plans during these difficult times.

She took her own coat off and hung it on the hook on the back of the door between the kitchen and the hall.

He opened the knife and examined the blade.

She had added other pencils to the pile; there were now more than a dozen in various lengths lying on the table.

‘You draw?’ He examined the lettering on the sides.

‘Some of these are softer than the ordinary kind.’

‘When I was younger. I’m just using them up before I buy more.

’

He took the first one, laying it in the curve of the fingers of his left hand and putting his thumb on the shaft to grip it.

She watched as he stroked the penknife firmly from painted wood to graphite tip, slicing off curls of cedar, one for each of the six sides of the pencil.

He rotated it and repeated the process.

There was, she noticed, a rhythm to the job.

He held the first pencil up vertically to check the grey lead was smooth and then sharpened it to a point with tiny, quick movements, before giving it a final check.

He didn’t say a word, just worked away in silence.

She took her diary out of her bag and opened it to the correct date.

‘Now, tell me your name and how I should contact you when I’m ready for the decorating.

’

‘Anderson,’ he replied.

‘Keith Anderson. I don’t have a telephone, but you could write?

My workshop’s just off Dalry Road.

I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be paying the rent on it, though.

’

Ann nodded. ‘If the information changes, please let me know.’ She reached across the table for the cake tin.

‘May I interest you in some parkin?’