The Banker's Niece 10: William 1

‘Yes?’ says Jane, putting on her most forbidding face.

    She knows exactly how grim she can look as she’s scared herself many a time when catching sight of herself by accident in the mirror.

    ‘Jane?’ says a man of indeterminate age the other side of the garden gate – which Jane hasn’t yet opened for him.

    He has dead-straight chestnut hair, a swathe of which flops over his eyes.

    ‘That man could do with a good haircut,’ says Jane’s mother’s voice in her head and for once Jane agrees with it.

    A minute ago she was standing on the cottage’s flagstone terrace transfixed by the view: green and more green in all shades from deepest pine to lemon. There wasn’t a house or road in sight and she made another snap decision. (Sharon would be proud of her.) This was where she wanted to live. All this space. All this solitude. She didn’t realise how much she needed them.

    And then, with the shattering roar of some sort of engine, this man arrived.

    Her face is obviously doing its job as he starts to gabble.

    ‘I, er . . . a n-neighbour rang . . . a car parked at the bottom of the track . . . the estate agent said . . . my m-mother . . .’

    By which Jane understands that he has full details of her movements from various sources, as well as knowing who she is. So much for solitude. It’s ironic, seeing as in the city she can do what she likes outside work and no one need be any the wiser.

    She can of course guess his identity as well, even though she’s pretending she can’t. So, in spite of his being the son of a one-time fellow deb of her mother and because he might turn out to be her nearest neighbour, she relents.

    ‘Yes, I’m Jane.’

    She keeps her scary face on. Neighbours in her experience are best kept at a distance, if that isn't contradictory. You don’t want them ‘popping’ in and out of your house. You want to be able to close your door and know that you won’t be disturbed.

    The man wipes his hand on his overalls and holds it out. ‘William.’

    The overalls are faded blue, spattered with brown, and a strong smell of manure has arrived with them. She wonders if it’s safe – from a hygiene point of view - to touch William’s hand but she supposes she has to.

    As she delays, he starts to gabble again. ‘Hope I’m not intruding . . .  can come b-back another time . . . wondered if I could help in any way . . . anything you want to know . . . anything at all -’

    ‘No,’ interrupts Jane, taking his hand and resisting the urge to then wipe hers on her skirt.

    She doesn’t mean to be curt but they can’t both gabble or the conversation will career off the rails, and she honestly doesn’t have any questions. She doesn’t care about the details. All is perfect.

    The garden is sweet, a romantic froth of pink and purple enclosed by a wild hedge, tall enough to give privacy. The house has everything a lone spinster needs: one and a half bedrooms, shower as well as bath, spick-and-span kitchen, sitting-room with open fire, French windows. Far from being full of detritus, it’s empty and spotlessly clean and smells of fresh paint. And on top of all that, there's a small concrete area to one side, in darn sight better nick than the track, just right for Clio.

    The two of them could move in tomorrow.

    The man’s face falls. ‘You d-don’t like the house then?’

    ‘Oh, no, it’s not that,’ she says and then comes to a halt, not sure how to proceed.

    The personal connection has muddied things. Didn’t her father always say ‘Never mix business with friendship’? As the daughter of William’s mother’s one-time fellow deb she can praise the house with impunity but as a possible buyer she should be playing it cool.

    The man looks at her with longing. ‘You d-do like it?’

    He has boyish features, uninteresting in themselves but open in a way most men’s features aren’t. Every emotion is immediately visible. It's hard to be cool with him. It feels cruel, like being cool with a child or an animal - not that she ever has been or ever would be. So she plumps for friendship. Of a distant sort, of course.

    ‘I might,’ she smiles.

    William smiles too. ‘Oh, I’m so glad.’

    And when he smiles his face is transformed. It becomes almost beautiful.

    He’s tall too. Her mother was right. Well over six foot.

    He starts to blush. ‘I, er, n-normally have something to eat around now – when I finish the milking. I w-wondered if you wanted to join me. . . I could tell you about the area . . . But only if you’ve got time, of course . . . You probably need to rush off . . . ’

    She remembers the ballroom dancing classes her mother sent her to when she was eleven or twelve. The boys, of the same age and invariably from single-sex schools, had to ask the girls to dance. Her stomach would be clenched with their embarrassment, not to say terror, and she always said yes in order to spare them.

    But this time, she doesn’t.

    ‘What sort of something?’ she asks.

    She really really doesn’t want to lead William on. It would be so easy to do and such a disaster if she was living next door and it went wrong which it would according to her experience. As her mother used to put it - in order to shock her father, and blaming her brothers for the language - 'Don't shit on your own doorstep.' And, anyway, Jane doesn’t lead men on any more. And, anyway, he’s too nice.

    ‘A fry-up?’ says William.

    She keeps her features neutral. A fry-up is hardly the most romantic of meals, so perhaps she’s safe, but it’s not the most appealing either. She knows what men’s fry-ups consist of. Meat and more meat, and she hasn’t eaten meat since her thirties.

    He tries again. ‘Scrambled eggs? Coffee?’

    Now he’s talking.

    Where?’ she asks. 

    ‘At my house,’ he says, pointing up the track.

    She remembers that track, the stones and the cowpats.

    ‘Is it far?’ she asks.

    ‘I can give you a lift on the quad bike,’ he says.

    So that was the reason for all the noise. She has no idea what a quad bike is and wonders whether her tight denim skirt will be suitable. She supposes she can hitch it up if necessary.

    ‘OK. Thanks. Yes.’

    William almost jumps for joy. ‘Jasper will be so pleased. He likes a bit of company. Don’t you old boy.’

    Jane notices for the first time a fat black Labrador with a greying muzzle sitting at William’s feet. William has bent down and is ruffling the dog’s ears.

    She's glad about Jasper. He makes her feel safe. From what, she’s not sure as William seems harmless enough. She wouldn't be going to his house otherwise. Herself, probably.

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