The War Widow. Lorna Gray
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almost before the previous occupant had left it. If this was a fresh assault on my nerves, so be it. At least I would be fed at the same time.
Dining out was a restricted affair when nearly every morsel of food was regulated by rationing. Patrons irrespective of wealth could enjoy two courses, either a starter and a main, or a main and sweet, with tea or coffee to follow. I think I must have been rather too quick to state a preference for the latter. It made his eyebrows lift but he didn’t disagree.
The reason for my decisiveness was that the main was only a standard offering of some kind of stew but the dessert was a neat little plate of Welsh cakes, freshly made and warm still. I think they were the dish that first made me realise that I too had been entirely unsmiling for the duration of our meal.
“Thank you, Mr Hitchen.” He was handing me the plate bearing my share of our second course. Taking it was like awakening after an unsettled sleep and finding daylight more cheerful than you had thought.
“Adam, please.” He poured the tea that had accompanied the dessert. “Assuming you don’t mind my calling you Kate?”
The first of my pair of Welsh cakes was simply heavenly. I will forever remember that moment as a brief peaceful island in the sea of all that fear, and in all honesty I don’t think my companion can take all the credit. That gentle scone-like delicacy was a little touch of much needed comfort and it acted like a restorative upon my entire mind.
My companion was being reassuringly harmless too as he prompted, “It is Kate, isn’t it? Not Katherine?”
I leaned back in my seat with the teacup cradled in my hands. I was ready at last to attempt the part of civilised luncheon partner. “No,” I said, “definitely Kate. It’s short for Katarina, which I hate.”
“You’re from Russia? Your English is very good, if you don’t mind my saying.”
I couldn’t tell whether he was teasing or not. I really couldn’t tell. It made me say drily, “Yes. I mean; no I don’t mind your saying. And yes, as if you haven’t already guessed: my accent is boring and English through and through. My mother just has an active imagination and an unhealthy obsession with the Ballets Russes, that’s all. My older sister is called Ludmilla, so I count myself lucky.”
An eyebrow lifted. “And does she abbreviate her name too?”
“Millie,” I said with a faint smile. “Much more pronounceable.”
“You’re an artist, aren’t you?”
Again that abrupt delivery that made his question seem somehow like an accusation. With a little sickening swoop from confidence into restraint, I wondered if this was working up to being a parody of my recent conversation in the gorge after all. He must have noticed the sudden tightening of my mouth because by way of explanation he added more gently, “You were painting when I stumbled across you this morning.”
I swallowed the sour taste of suspicion and admitted the truth. “Lovely up there, isn’t it? I might have gone further if I had thought to bring a more useful wardrobe of clothes.”
“No slacks or gumboots?”
He was teasing me. I nodded. “Precisely. I reached the point where the path turns into a very dirty sheep track and then stalled. Painting was my excuse – or camouflage if you will – and at least honour was saved by the fact that the view up there ranks as beyond inspirational.”
“Yes. It does. There’s quite some atmosphere around that hilltop.”
There was a deeper ring of sincerity in his tone. Then I saw him blink at me across the brim of his teacup. I saw his mouth dip as he set the teacup down. There was something in the action that was a familiar kind of self-reproach; like a guilty realisation he’d said too much. I recognised the feeling because I was constantly doing it myself. My attention sharpened abruptly. I said quickly, “You were making notes – are you a writer?”
Then a sudden thought struck me as he looked at me – that sort where you get a rare glimpse of the real person for the first time and it comes with a kind of kick that feels like shock but might just as easily be care. I found myself staring. “You go by the name of A. E. Woolfe …”
“Quick, aren’t you?” He spoke a shade curtly. Then he conceded with a rueful smile, “This is meant to be a research trip but unfortunately I haven’t been able to travel quite as incognito as I would have liked.”
I laughed and saw his eyelashes flicker.
He asked “What’s funny?”
“I was just thinking that it’s a good job I’d said that book was well written, otherwise I’d be feeling very embarrassed at this precise moment.”
Suddenly he grinned. He sat back in his chair. It was like a sudden shelving of reserve. Then he leaned in to rest his forearms upon the table with an eagerness that matched Jim Bristol’s, but with an entirely different energy. An entirely different style of warmth I mean. In his person he was as physically fit as Jim Bristol, as befitted a tall man who clearly liked walking, but without Jim’s excess of muscle so that the whole effect was of restrained strength rather than formidable bulk. As he leaned in his whole posture changed as if his nervousness had suddenly eased, and in a rare moment of not thinking everything was about me and my little drama, I wondered if my earlier theory had been correct and he truly was a little shy.
As if to prove the point, his attention dropped to the salt cellar, toying with it and moving it in a circle around the pepper pot. Then his hand stilled and he said carefully with his gaze resting upon the tabletop, “What about you – you’re travelling incognito too, aren’t you?”
“What do you mean? What makes you say that?” I demanded, thrust abruptly back into unhappy suspicion. I wondered what I would do if it turned out that this man sitting opposite in a pleasant hotel tearoom was actually a different kind of person entirely.
“No reason,” he said, “just an impression I got, that’s all.” He was still playing with the salt cellar and he carefully set it back into its place beside its peppery companion before lifting his head again. His mouth gifted me a quick glimpse of a reassuring smile. “Natural assumption based on nothing more than solidarity between artists. If I’m in hiding then so must you be.”
I gave a short laugh then and turned my head aside under the guise of being distracted by the earnest discussion between the waitress and the patrons at the next table so that he needn’t see the workings of my mind. Then I dared to glance at him again and the expression on his face drew my mouth into a sheepish smile. “Comparing me with the great A. E. Woolfe? That’s setting me a little high I should think – no need for incognito when you’re an unknown.” And then, lulled by the answering crease that touched the corners of his eyes, I foolishly added, “And this isn’t really a painting trip anyway.”
“No?” he asked. “What is it then?”
I hesitated. I actually wavered for a moment between sense and further stupidity. But then I heard myself only say, “I’m sorry to sound mysterious but I’d rather not speak about it, if you don’t mind.”
To many this would have been the perfect encouragement to pry but I was astounded to find that with this man at least, this was not the case. He simply sat back in his chair and said calmly, “Fair enough. You needn’t tell me anything you don’t want to. After all, why should you when—”
“—I don’t know you from Adam?”
“Quite,” he said. And then he smiled at me.
Adam Hitchen was as good as his word. By degrees our conversation returned to the safer ground of his books and my artwork, though given my general intention of remaining aloof from my fellow guests, it was perhaps a little startling to find myself willingly telling him about