Day 9

Day 9

The seated couple heard Walter before they saw him, flagstones again betraying a presence in the garden. He pushed a metal trolley laden with covered dishes of various sizes. A large cast iron casserole dish dominated the top shelf of the trolley, knives and forks and bottles of condiments jostling shoulder to shoulder by its side as it rumbled over the flagstones.

“Ah, you’re both here already,” he said, bringing the trolley to rest at the side of the long table. “Let me set up the food.” With a practised hand he laid out and uncovered all of the dishes. Swirling clouds of steam rose from the piping hot food, a small mushroom cloud that pooled into the v shape of the wooden canopy above their heads.

“It looks good. Is that sausage casserole?” said Harry.

Walter looked at the bubbling pot, an experimental recipe. “Well, yes, I suppose you could call it that. It’s my own creation. It has a bit of everything in it. Would you like to try it?”

Harry handed him his plate and Walter scooped up a large ladleful. He then heaped a mound of potatoes and an assortment of other mixed vegetables on the side. Harry counted peas, carrots, and sweetcorn within the mix.

“And for you,” he said to Keiko. He handed her a brown bowl with a matching ceramic lid.

“You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble,” she said, again giving a brief nod or bow, as Harry had observed seemed to be her habit.

“You’re not having sausage?” asked Harry after swallowing a mouthful of sausage.

“Oh, no, I don’t eat that sort of food. Walter knows what I like. He’s very kind, he always makes me something else.”

Harry looked at her as she lifted over the cover and placed it neatly to the side. An orange brown soup with some small nuts sprinkled on top. Keiko lifted her spoon and slowly stirred it. Her glasses fogged up as she bent over to take a mouthful. She frowned once more, removed her glasses and placed them by the lid.

“So, Harry, how do you like your lodge? Is there anything you need?” asked Walter.

He hadn’t even unpacked or had a proper look around the kitchenette and bathroom at the back, but said anyway “Everything’s fine. I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

“Please do.” Walter filled his own plate and sat next to Keiko. She shifted a couple of inches to make room.

“In fact,” said Harry. “I need to go to a place called the Blue Tor tomorrow. I have an important meeting. Do you know where that is? I’ve had a look at a map but it’s not that clear.”

Walter thought for a moment. “It’s three or four miles from Glendoune but as far as I know it’s not a place that’s marked on any map. If you like, I could take you tomorrow. I have to go to Glendoune anyway to pick up a few things.”

Keiko interrupted. “Can you take me to town too? There are some things I’d like to buy.”

“Certainly, it would be my pleasure,” said Walter. He had a rather florid way of of talking. Not in an affected or pretentious way, rather he appeared to be a person who carefully chose his words in an effort to project a stately, well mannered air. Put him in a suit and tie, shine his shoes and Harry might well take him for a diplomat or some other type of high flying functionary.

Harry thought about tomorrow’s schedule. First he had to go to the hotel for the meeting and presumably out to the Blue Tor to look at the prospective site of the new hotel. “I don’t mind taking my car, if you don’t mind showing me the way. I’d like to get my bearings and learn the lie of the land. I might have to go back and forward to Glendoune a few times over the next couple of days.”

“Why not?” Walter turned to Keiko. “What do you think?”

“Ok, let’s do that. Harry can drive us and we can talk on the way there. Pass the bread, please,” said Keiko to no one in particular. Harry slid the basket over to her, letting her have first choice of the assorted rolls before taking one himself. He would’ve liked to have eaten more but felt self-conscious in front of his new acquaintances. Both Walter and Keiko were relatively trim. It’d do him good to eat more carefully for a few days. The fare that Walter served was rather appetising, and satisfying in the way that only homemade food can be so he hoped he wouldn’t eat as much as he usually did.

They ate, passing condiments and slivers of smalltalk between themselves. Walter led, Keiko spoke little but with significance, and Harry mostly nodded and listened. He found out that Walter was very fond of cooking, had once been in the army and that Keiko had arrived two weeks before him.

“How about some coffee or tea?” said Walter. “Oh, by the way,” he added. “All the food is included in the price. You can eat and drink whatever you like. I don’t know if I told you that before.”

Harry couldn’t remember either. “Can I have tea?”

“Tea it is,” said Walter. Harry noticed that he didn’t ask Keiko if she wanted anything.

Walter cleared the dishes on to the trolley while Keiko busied herself with writing in a small notebook, her hair once again falling over to obscure her face. Harry couldn’t see what she was writing but she seemed absorbed in it.

Walter wandered off to the kitchen, leaving Harry and Keiko alone. She didn’t seem much of talker. Perhaps she preferred to be left alone? Having only just arrived Harry decided to err on the side of caution and stick to small talk. In a couple of days they might get to know each other better and be able to talk more freely. With no tv and only a couple of books and a garden to keep him occupied, it seemed like it might be a long five days. Hermit fantasies were all well and good but he had to admit that it was one that looked like being stretched to its limits and discarded after only a few hours.

Keiko stood and excused herself from the table. “I have some work to do in my room. Good night. We’ll see each other in the morning.” Again, she nod bowed in her rather formal way. Harry tried out a small bow in return, to which Keiko bowed again, perhaps an inch deeper this time. Some respect gained?

The meal hadn’t taken long, only thirty minutes. Walter set a cup of tea down and excused himself again. Quite at odds with the languid, relaxed atmosphere that the well used furniture suggested. If it had been a scene in a French film, the group would have lingered for hours over the meal, laughing and talking, drinking copious glasses of wine and discussing matters of existential import. At the Old Forest Inn the merits of sausage casserole had gained the most table time.

Harry went back to the lodge to drink his tea. He had no trouble retracing his steps and plunged into the thicket without hesitation. He sat on the old chair and sipped tea while he checked his e-mail. It was good tea, not too strong and without a hint of bitterness.

He hadn’t received any more messages. The old fear returned, the nagging uncertainty that life had never really been entirely under his control. He’d didn’t believe in fate but wasn’t entirely convinced by free will either. The paperwork in relation to the deal was full of technical languages and stock phrases. Try as he might he couldn’t concentrate on it. He closed the laptop and laid it aside.

Tomorrow he’d have to suit and boot himself and deliver his honest but not particularly inspiring sales talk. A colleague once told him that a sales pitch should be more of a performance than a conscious act. Just imagine you’re an actor on stage, they had said.

Harry knew he was no performer and would stammer and stumble the minute he felt himself embellishing the truth. Let’s be honest, he thought to himself, the deal would be done or undone by the simple fact of whether the client truly wanted to build a hotel. It wasn’t a matter of whether or not his company had the skills knowledge and experience or even about the price that they could negotiate. His immediate future was going to be decided on a whim. If Hilary Finch disliked his tie or his way of speaking, the way he tended to scratch his face or any number of minor personal foibles, or even if it rained or a cloud cast an ominous shadow over the site at the wrong time there would be no deal.

He unpacked his bag, lined up a neat row of toiletries in the bathroom then took a long shower to wash away a growing weariness. He took Stefan Zweig to bed but couldn’t get quite comfortable so went to the little veranda and settled himself down with a blanket to read under a small lantern, only the turn of the page breaking the near total silence. As before his eyelids grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep on the veranda before even ten pages had been turned.

By 9 p.m. the last of Harry’s weariness ebbed away. Upon opening his eyes he felt completely refreshed as if he’d slept soundly all night in the most comfortable of beds. The lantern above his head flickered as a pair of moths darted and circled, transfixed by its gentle glow. He couldn’t hear anything except his own breath and the regular rhythm of his heart.

He wondered how many times in the past that he’d thought that it was always the next day that was the one to either be feared or looked forward to. Too many times he’d wished today away for the promise of a new day. Always tomorrow, living on hope and what might be instead of what was.

The sound of someone singing broke the silence. Not at all loud, just enough to be heard. At first he thought it was a radio but it was richer and more alive, rising and falling to a gentle melody that he couldn’t make out.