Hiding From the Light. Barbara Erskine

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      Pulling her MG into the car park near the Co-op Emma crawled slowly between tightly packed rows of cars trying to find a space. ‘Better to park there and walk up to the shop,’ the house agent had said. ‘There’s no parking along the High Street here and not much anywhere on a Saturday.’

      How right he was. The place was teeming. Someone backed out in front of her and she turned into the space with relief. She was exhausted. It had been a two-hour drive from London – a drive starting with a row with Piers …

      ‘I’m sorry. I told you yesterday, I am not going off on some wild goose chase to see a cottage I don’t want in a county I don’t like on a weekend I want to stay at home!’

      He had been furious when she confessed she had rung the agent that morning at nine a.m.

      ‘Yes, you’re right. It is Liza’s.’ The young man’s voice had been hoarse, as though he had a bad cold. ‘Yes, it is still on the market. There’s been a lot of interest, but no one has made a definite offer yet. Yes, you could view it today.’

      ‘Liza’s.’ She had repeated the name to herself as she hung up. ‘Liza’s Cottage.’

      Will Fortingale, the young man at the estate agent’s, did indeed have a bad cold. His nose was red and swollen and he was clutching a large handkerchief as he opened the filing cabinet and pulled out a folder of particulars and a bunch of keys.

      ‘Do you know how to find it?’ He withdrew a couple of stapled sheets of A4 and handed them to her.

      ‘It was a long time ago.’

      ‘Right. Well. It’s not occupied, so they won’t mind you looking round it on your own. You don’t want me to go with you?’ He glanced up anxiously and she saw the relief in his eyes as she shook her head. He had summed her up as she walked through the door. He could always tell a serious buyer and Emma Dickson wasn’t a serious buyer. There was no point in trying too hard with this sale, especially as he was feeling so damn rotten.

      She waited whilst he scribbled down some instructions for her, found and photocopied a local map, handed her the keys, then she was out in the street again.

      She did not remember Manningtree at all. She stood outside the agent’s shop and stared round in delight. It was a pretty town, the centre consisting as far as she could see of little more than the narrow, busy main road in which she was standing with a couple of other streets crossing it at right angles. She squinted at the map in her hand. She was standing on the corner of Church Street. South Street ran parallel with it fifty yards or so along. All were hung with flower baskets – old houses and shops alike decorated with fuchsia and geraniums, lobelia and ivy. She pressed back against the wall as a car swept by and hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should have a cup of coffee somewhere before going on to see the house. She had left home without having any breakfast, and she had been on the road so long she was feeling quite weak. Besides, she was, she realised, suddenly a little apprehensive about finally going inside the house whose keys were clutched in her hand. The whole enterprise had acquired an emotional overload which had begun to alarm her.

      She could see a coffee house from where she was standing outside an empty shop, its windows whitewashed, a For Sale notice hanging from the jettied storey above the front door. As she stood hesitating the door opened and a man came out. Talking hard and looking over his shoulder back into the shop he cannoned into her violently, nearly knocking her off her feet.

      ‘Oh my God, I’m sorry!’ He grabbed her arm and steadied her as she staggered into the gutter, the cottage keys flying out of her hand. ‘Oh shit! Let me get those. Have I hurt you? Come and sit down a minute.’

      Before she knew it she had been drawn through the door into the empty shop and pushed into a folding canvas chair.

      ‘I’m OK, honestly.’ She had finally got her breath back enough to speak.

      ‘No you’re not, look at your foot!’

      She looked down at her sandalled feet. Below her pink jeans her ankle looked a bit swollen and was already distinctly black. ‘It’s not as bad as it looks, honestly.’ She was overwhelmed and not a little embarrassed by his concern. ‘It’ll be fine.’

      The man who was now kneeling at her feet was tall and wiry, probably like her in his mid-thirties. Dressed in blue jeans and a checked shirt he had short cropped dark hair and a long, rather mournful face. ‘It doesn’t look fine to me. I am a clot. I never look where I’m going. Colin, do something!’

      Emma had not even realised there was someone else in the room. The man who now stood forward was shortish and solidly built with pepper-and-salt hair, perhaps in his mid-forties. He grinned at her peaceably.

      ‘My colleague is always flattening people and I constantly find myself picking them up!’ His voice had the unmistakable singsong of the Welsh hills. ‘Would you like a doctor, an ambulance, a bandage, a lawyer or a cup of coffee?’

      Emma burst out laughing. ‘I’ll settle for a coffee. That is where I was heading when we bumped into each other.’

      ‘God, that’s tactful!’ The younger man straightened up. ‘Bumped into each other! I completely bulldozed you.’

      ‘You’re forgiven!’ Emma was rubbing her foot. ‘Much as I’m enjoying the sympathy this is not a bruise, you know. It’s actually dirt.’

      ‘Off my great clumping shoes.’ The younger man looked down at his feet ruefully. ‘This place is filthy.’

      ‘I’ll fetch us some coffee while Mark looks after you.’ The Welshman fished in his pocket for some change. СКАЧАТЬ