Page 27 of The Man Who Didn't Call
‘I am,’ he said. ‘But she – well, she doesn’t have explosive breakdowns, more just gradual declines. My aunt’s come to stay because I’m off on holiday on Thursday. She’ll be keeping a close eye on her.’
‘You’re sure?’ I asked. ‘I don’t mind if you need to go and see her.’
‘Quite sure. She called earlier, said they’re off to the garden centre. She sounded well.’ Then: ‘Trust me,’ he added, when I looked doubtful. ‘If things were even approaching serious, I’d be there. I know what to look for.’
I imagined Eddie watching his mother, week in, week out, like a fisherman watching the sky.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Well then, I think you should start by telling me about Steve.’
He chuckled, flicked a crumb, or maybe an insect, out of my hair. ‘Steve terrorizes me and just about every species of wildlife that tries to live here. I don’t know what’s wrong with him; he seems to spend almost all of his time in the grass, spying on me, rather than up a tree where he belongs. The only time he gets off his backside is when I buy a bird feeder. No matter where I hang the bloody things, he manages to bust in and eat everything.’
I started laughing. ‘He sounds great.’
‘He is. I love him, but I also dislike him very intensely. I have a machine-gun-grade water pistol – we can have a go at him later if you like.’
I smiled. A whole day with this man and his squirrel, in this hidden corner of the Cotswolds that reminded me of all the best parts – and none of the worst – of my childhood. It was a treat.
I looked around me at the vestments of this man’s life. Books, maps, handmade stools. A glass bowl full of coins and keys, an old Rolleiflex camera. At the top of a bookshelf, a collection of garish football trophies.
I wandered over towards them.The Elms, Battersea Monday, said the closest one.Old Robsonians – Champions, Division 1.‘Are these yours?’
Eddie came over. ‘They are.’ He picked up the recent one; ran a brown finger along the top. A little ruler of dust slid off the edge. ‘I play for a team in London. Which might sound a bit odd, given that I live here, but I’m up there quite a lot doing kitchens and . . . well, they’ve proved very difficult to leave.’
‘Why?’
‘I joined years ago. When I thought I was going to give London a proper go. They’re . . .’ He chuckled. ‘They’re just a very funny group. When I moved back to Gloucestershire, I couldn’t quite bring myself to retire. Nobody can. We all love it too much.’
I smiled, looking again at the jumble of trophies. One went back more than twenty years. I liked that he’d held friendships so long.
Then: ‘No!’ I breathed. I plucked out a book from further down his shelves: the Collins GemBirds,the exact same edition that I’d had as a child. I’d spent hours poring over this little tome. Sitting in the fork of the pear tree in our garden, hoping that if I stayed there long enough, the birds would come and roost with me.
‘I had this, too!’ I told Eddie. ‘I knew every single bird off by heart!’
‘Really?’ He came over. ‘I loved this book.’ He turned to a page near the middle and covered the name of the bird with his hand. ‘What’s this?’
The bird had a golden chest and a burglar’s mask across his eyes. ‘Oh God . . . No, hang on. Nuthatch! Eurasian nuthatch!’
He showed me another.
‘Stonechat!’
‘Oh my God,’ Eddie said. ‘You are my perfect woman.’
‘I had the wildflowers one, too. And the butterflies and moths. I was a precocious little naturalist.’
He put the book to one side. ‘Can I ask you something, Sarah?’
‘Of course.’ I loved hearing him say my name.
‘Why do you live in a city? If you feel like this about nature?’
I paused. ‘I just can’t live in the country,’ I said eventually. Something about my face must have told him not to pry further, because, after watching me for a few seconds, he ambled off to get out the bread.
‘I had the trees book.’ He looked around for an oven glove, settling eventually for the tea towel on his shoulder. ‘Dad got it for me. It was he who got me into woodwork, in fact, although he certainly never imagined I’d make a career of it. He used to take me to help him collect firewood from the log man in autumn. He let me smash some of the logs up to make kindling.’
He paused, smiling. ‘It was the smell. I fell in love with the smell at first, but I was fascinated by how quickly you could turn a tough-looking log into something completely different. One winter I started pinching bits of the kindling to make stick men. Then there came the toilet-roll holder, and the worst mallet in history.’
He chuckled. ‘And then there was Mouse.’ He opened the oven; pulled out the baking tray. ‘My pride and joy. Dad wasn’t particularly impressed, but Mum said it was the most perfect little mouse she’d ever seen.’
