Page 22 of A Change of Location
He brushed off her thanks for the tour of his territory. “My pleasure. I’ve just thought of something else you might like. Ever seen otters?”
“Lots of times. Not English ones, though.”
“We can look for them. If you don’t mind mud.”
“In Maine, we have an entire season devoted to it, the weeks between snow melt and spring flowers.” Her khakis were already speckled with dirt and damp at the hems. Her face felt flushed from all the walking, and she didn’t want to think about her hair.
He led her along a riverside footpath. “After years of decline, their numbers are increasing. Playful little buggers. In winter, they slide on their backs in the snow, right along this bank.” He pointed to a grassy slope.
“You’ve seen them doing it?”
“If by ‘doing it’ you mean snow sliding, I haven’t actually caught them in the act, though I’ve seen evidence when snow lies on the ground. It rarely does, this far south.”
At the place where the river broadened, near a clump of willows, stood a small brick dwelling. Nearby, resting in the water, was a red and black vessel. Emotional Rescue was painted on its hull in bold, bright lettering.
“My former home.”
“The cottage? Or the houseboat?”
“Em is a canal narrowboat. I bought her years ago and performed some of the restoration work myself. After Mother moved from London to France, I rented a residential mooring in London’s Little Venice.”
“I’ve been around boats all my life. Can we go inside?”
“I haven’t got the key with me. Agnes, the River Cottage tenant, has one. She manages the charity shop in Newbridge, so she’s not there now. I come by occasionally to potter about. Polish the brass fittings, freshen the paint. Once in a while I drag Poppy along. But she prefers horses.”
Hannah recalled the kiss his estate manager had bestowed back at the vet’s office. Proprietary, or a simple expression of gratitude? Their relationship was an unsolved puzzle.
“Cost me a packet to move Em from the city. Somerset hasn’t many canals, and the nearest ones are derelict, so I placed her here. The water is relatively shallow, except during the occasional spring flood, so she just sits, which is bad for her engine and electrics and stove. She needs to be on the canals again, piloted by somebody as attached to her as I’ve been. I contacted a broker at a Bristol boatyard to discuss selling her, then got too busy to follow through. But I will.”
Around teatime he dropped her off at her hotel, promising to return later. Hannah changed her dirty trousers for comfy flannel loungewear, and stretched out on the bed with phone and laptop to review her photos and videos. In her relaxed and reflective state, she was tempted to withdraw from the promised foray to the local pub. The prospect of several hours in prickly Poppy’s company wasn’t appealing. But telephoning Martin with a made-up excuse would be futile—his coaxing was too persuasive, and she always gave in to it.
Refreshed by a shower, she dried her hair and considered her dwindling wardrobe options. She managed her mix-and-match outfits on a four-day rotation. Hand-rinsed tops, damply clinging to the radiator, decorated the bathroom, along with most of her underwear collection. From her bag she excavated a lace-edged camisole and combined it with a skirt and a jacket buttoned up to hide the lingerie underneath.
Several minutes before the appointed time she wandered down to the lobby. Martin was there already, studying a tourist brochure.
“Just me,” he declared. “You’ll be relieved to hear that Millie came through her surgery with an excellent prognosis. Slight change of plan—I booked a table for two in the dining room here. But I’d like to take you to my favorite pub first. Popster’s too knackered, meaning we can go across the green to The Peacock. She always insists on The Huntsman’s Horn. It’s all right, though too tarted up for my taste. And I prefer real ale.”
She approved of his choice the moment she saw the authentic hodgepodge décor of what he described as the oldest public house in the district, which was clearly the warm, noisy heart of this village. A cheery tapster interrupted his conversation with the men assembled at his bar and hailed Martin by name.
Hannah requested a half-pint of cider and let him pay. She intended to treat him to dinner.
“I’ll send young Andy over with menus,” the barman said, eyeing the level of the amber liquid as he pulled on the tap. “He’s in a bad skin tonight, won’t say what’s wrong.”
“We’re dining at the Latimer Arms. Hannah can try your cookery another time.”
This comment revealed his firm belief that she would be returning.
“Heavenly,” she said after a hearty chug. “And there’s a dartboard! I haven’t played in ages.”
Both men stared at her, obviously surprised by her admission.
“My uncle taught me,” she explained. “He’s a champ, and has trophies to prove it.” Now that Chase was out on work release, maybe he could compete again. He hadn’t been able to play while incarcerated at Warren, or after his transfer to Machiasport.
“I’ll take you on,” Martin offered.
Immediately regretting her enthusiasm, she told him frankly, “I’m rusty.”
“Let’s fling some arrows. No scorekeeping. This time.”
