He was shaking my hand in an entirely appropriate manner, but our eyes locked in a way that probably wasn’t

The Miller’s Cottage is an alien landscape where the slates lift in the wind and the windowpanes rattle like loose teeth. With Mac and the dogs gone, I am alone in the kitchen, rooted to the spot, as if I’ve come a long distance and cannot walk another step. The cold of the stone floor soaks through my trainers like water. Outside, I can see a tiny bird clinging to the telephone wire.

The pine table is draped in an old-fashioned oilcloth, illustrated with cherries so succulent and glossy they look good enough to eat.

A sharp twist deep inside makes me groan. I press a hand to my ribcage, grip the edge of the table as fragments of memory crowd my mind.

Me putting cherries on the trifle. Mother checking the clock for the hundredth time, mouthing the time soundlessly, as she always does, then telling me, They’ll be here any minute.

Stick that trifle in the fridge, quick!

I remember my father’s disembodied voice from deep inside the parlour: “Look at that squirrel on the bird feeder!

“You can coat the seeds in chilli powder, you know. It keeps the little buggers away.”

Deceptive

In my memory he’s standing at the front window, hands behind his back.

My mother joins him standing there, and she’s saying: “But what about the birds? Do they like chilli powder?”

Memories are weird like that, deceptive. I never saw any of that in reality. In reality, I was skulking in the kitchen, because I was awkward around new people.

I was awkward around my own sister, because she always made me feel too clumsy, too slow, too ignorant.

Dad had passed some comment about Jane’s new red Mini, and Mum had clipped into the hall in those neat court shoes she always keeps for Sunday.

Had it been a Sunday? I can’t remember what day it was. I should remember what day it was.

Then they were all in the hall, kissing and hugging. Where was I?

I may have been looking through the kitchen door, or standing awkwardly in the hall. I was on the outside, somewhere, gazing in. Jane looked amazing – all that hair, copper at the crown, paler at the tips, as if the ends had been dipped in something luscious.

She was just finishing her teacher training then, in Dundee, so we hadn’t seen each other for a while. She spotted me and rushed forward.

“Lucie!”

I hadn’t moved. I can feel the same stiffness in me now, the way my mouth refuses to curve, the way my arms fold naturally across my belly.

She’d changed her mind about hugging me and I think we were both relieved.

“Lucie, you look... the same!” A bright little crystal laugh. “Come and meet Reuben!”

Suddenly, Reuben was there, holding my hand. Okay, he was shaking my hand in an entirely appropriate manner, but our eyes locked in a way that probably wasn’t.

It was over in a split second. He dropped my hand and my skin felt cold.

Dad was talking about whisky and my mother had steered Reuben away.

They left me standing there in the hallway, all broken loose inside.

I couldn’t move. Reuben’s eyes had asked me a question. Who are you? Back then, I didn’t have an answer.

I suddenly come back to life, drag the oilcloth from the table. Cherries jump before my vision like the images on a fruit machine.

I try and fold it but it’s huge, inflexible. It threatens to engulf me.

I wrestle it to the floor and stamp on it. Eventually, it lies there in an unwieldy ball.

I carry it into the hall and fling it as far as I can out of the back door.

Mac

You can tell a lot about folk by how they interact with animals.

The girl hadn’t really turned a hair when the hounds rushed at her on the doorstep.

She’d put up with them parading around her new abode, and seemed unfazed when Jethro cocked his leg against the basket of logs in the utility room.

Jethro likes to leave his mark, and Max will eat anything he can find. Floss is more subtle.

She’s very needy, falling in love with perfect strangers and casting a spell over them with her melted chocolate eyes.

I’m lost. Take me home, she seems to beg. I spotted Lucie trying to tease a knot from one of her silky spaniel ears.

She went up in my estimation, that’s for sure, but it’s early days.

Instead of returning home, I take a left and head down to the village.

I’m eager to see Arthur as soon as possible and impart what little knowledge I’ve gleaned about our new addition.

It was Arthur who’d first mooted the idea of a Girl Friday.

He’d said it would set his mind at rest, knowing I wasn’t up at the house all alone.

I’m afraid I’d taken umbrage at first, accused him of sneaking in a carer by the back door.

“I’m only seventy, you know. Hardly decrepit! And anyway, I have the dogs for company, and you’re only a phone call away.”

I’d tried to keep my recent ill health a secret, but nothing gets past my son.

Girl Friday

I gave in reluctantly to the Girl Friday idea, taking pains to point out that she would be more of a PA for my writing and research, although a little light ironing wouldn’t go amiss.

I began to warm to the idea, visualising a biddable foreign exchange student with excellent editing skills, a cheery smile and a nice signature dish of eggs Benedict.

Lucie Snowe did not fit that description. Arthur had yet to meet her and I could only imagine the conversation when he did.

We reach the village and I call the dogs to heel as a tractor chugs by. The farmer raises a slow hand and I dip the brim of my waxed hat in reply.

Floss is missing, but that’s not unusual. She can take off for days, on the trail of something only she can see.

I march the two collies across the road. The cafe lights are warm and welcoming.

Max starts to drool, and Jethro lifts his leg on the pavement sign that reads Muir’s Artisan Bakery and Tea Rooms.

I’ve always wondered about the use of the plural, when tea is invariably served in a singular room.

More tomorrow.