Page 14 of The Man Who Didn't Call
I nodded.
‘Did one of your parents take a job out there?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And are they still out there?’
‘No. They live near here. Over towards Stroud.’
I angled my face away, as if that excused me skirting the edge of a lie. ‘So. Eddie. Tell me what you were doing on Sapperton Green on a weekday afternoon.’
He leaned down to stroke the walkers’ dog. ‘Visiting my mum. She lives up near the school.’ A tiny hairline fracture passed through his voice. ‘What were you doing?’ he asked.
‘I walked from Frampton Mansell.’ I nodded in the direction of my parents’ village.
He frowned. ‘But you didn’t come along the valley – you came from up the hill.’
‘Well . . . I wanted to get some proper exercise, so I hiked up the hill and walked along the top. Along Broad Ride, in fact – it’s changed a lot,’ I added quickly.This is becoming a minefield.‘So overgrown! It used to be so wide and stately; people would bring their horses from all over for a gallop. Now it’s little more than a pathway.’
He nodded. ‘They do still gallop up and down it, even though it’s been banned. One of them came very close to mowing me down earlier.’
I smiled at the thought of anyone being able to mow down this big mass of man, horse or otherwise. It pleased me that he, too, liked to walk along that secret green corridor.
‘I was like Moses of Sapperton,’ he said. ‘Parting a Red Sea of cow parsley.’
We both sipped our drinks.
‘So do you live round here?’
‘Yeah,’ Eddie said, ‘although I get a lot of commissions from London, so I’m there a fair bit.’ He slapped me suddenly on the calf.
‘Horsefly,’ he said softly, flicking the dead insect off his palm. ‘Eating your leg. Sorry.’
I took a long draw on the cider and felt the heady, sensual purr of alcohol and mild shock. ‘They’re bastards here in June,’ he said. ‘They’re bastards all year, but especially in June.’
He showed me two angry bumps on his forearm. ‘One of them got me this morning.’
‘I hope you bit it back.’
Eddie smiled. ‘I didn’t. They spend quite a lot of time sitting on horses’ private parts.’
‘Of course. Yes.’
Before I’d asked permission of myself, I touched the bites on his skin. ‘Poor arm,’ I said, although in a very matter-of-fact tone, because I was already embarrassed.
Eddie stopped laughing and turned to look at me. He met my gaze, a question in his eyes.
It was me who looked away first.
Sometime later I was comfortably drunk. Eddie was inside getting our third, or maybe fourth pint. I heard the beep-beep of the till as the landlord rang up his order, the crackle of something I hoped might be crisps and the lazy whine of a plane dragging across the sky.
The lichened surface of our old picnic table had begun to feel like sandpaper on the soft backs of my thighs. I looked around for another, less abrasive table, but found none, so I flopped down in the grass like the ramblers’ dog from earlier on. I smiled, happy and intoxicated. Grass tickled my ear. I wanted never to leave. I wanted simply to be here; no phone, no responsibilities. Just Eddie David and me.
As I gazed up at the sky, the earth warm underneath me, I caught an old ripple of memory.This, I thought lazily. The smell of warm grass, the soft patter and rustle of it, layeredwith buzzing insects and snatches of hummed songs. This had been me once. Before Tommy had moved to America and adolescence had exploded under my feet like a landmine,this had been enough.
‘Man down,’ Eddie said, coming down the steps with a beer, a cider and – worshipful praises! – crisps! ‘You claimed to be a hard drinker.’
‘I forgot about cider,’ I admitted. ‘But it should be noted that I haven’t passed out. I just got fed up with that prickly bench.’ I hauled myself up on my elbows. ‘Anyway, you must open those crisps straight away.’
