‘Well, that’s just it. He called to offer to help me and I can’t remember when he last called at all, let alone to be so considerate. Normally it is Camilla who makes the arrangements when the family descends on me for lunch, but I very rarely hear from Julian from one visit to the next.’
‘Well, that’s progress, then. You should be happy. Take those little acts of kindness as a sign of his potential, perhaps? People do mellow with old age, I find.’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose I must take it as a step forward.’
‘What was he offering help with?’
‘My car. He said he’d take it off my hands and swap it for a little runaround that I’d find a bit more reliable in the winter. I’m not remotely tempted. I’m very happy with my Land Rover, but at the same time, you’re right. I shouldn’t disregard an act of kindness, so perhaps I shall agree just so as not to be difficult. I don’t want him to think I’m stubborn or impossible to please.’
There was nothing but silence on the end of the phone.
‘Mrs Millwood? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, Mr Doubler. I’m still here. Just thinking. Your Land Rover, you say. How old is it now?’
‘Well, goodness, I must have bought it the second or third winter after I bought the farm and I’ve run it ever since. It’s ancient, I’m afraid. Forty years old, perhaps?’
‘That’s lovely, Mr Doubler, just lovely that your son is thinking about your needs. But don’t agree just yet. I am sure he’ll let you have a little time to think about what’s best as a replacement, won’t he?’
‘Well, he seemed quite keen to get the ball rolling, but I can’t imagine anything will happen in a hurry.’
‘Good. Let me do a little research for you. My husband was a very keen mechanic; he knew an awful lot about cars, so we all picked up a bit of knowledge along the way. Let me have a chat with one or two people. You know how I like to research things properly to, you know, prevent mistakes made in haste. I’ll do a little digging. It will help you reach the right decision.’
‘Well, that’s extremely kind, Mrs Millwood.’ Doubler readjusted himself against the hall table and let out a small yelp of pain as his leg briefly gave way under him.
‘Are you all right, Mr Doubler?’
‘Oh fine, quite fine, thank you. Just getting into a comfy position. This might well be the longest conversation I’ve had on the phone and I’ve never thought to put a chair in the hallway.’
‘You poor old thing. I had somehow imagined you in the kitchen or in the sitting room tucked up in front of the fire. It’s draughty in that hall, too. Go and get yourself warm. I should probably stop my call now anyway. I’m getting slightly disapproving looks.’
‘Very well, then, Mrs Millwood. Thanks for calling.’
‘I’ll call the same time tomorrow, see how you’re doing, shall I?’
‘Super!’ said Doubler, any sadness at the approach of the end of the call vanishing at the thought of a guaranteed call the very next day. ‘Cheerio.’
Doubler replaced the receiver and went to the kitchen, where he sat very quietly while replaying the conversation in his head, smiling as he did so. He concentrated furiously, recalling it as accurately as he could because it suddenly felt extremely important to him that he held on to each and every word.
Later that afternoon, Doubler sat and watched the bottom of the drive with his binoculars. Sometimes his seat at the top of the hill made him feel invincible, but on other days he felt exposed up at Mirth Farm. The binoculars had become a vital part of his armoury and he liked the advantage they gave him.
Midge was unlikely to visit again until Thursday at the very earliest. If he was lucky. She had said she couldn’t pick up his groceries indefinitely, but that implied she would pick them up again, at least this once. Which meant he had a visit to look forward to this week and next, he reasoned.
Even though he had chosen to shut himself off from the outside world, he had never really tested the theory of being an actual recluse. He had regular visitors; he only had to pick up the phone and any number of local suppliers and tradesmen would drop what they were doing to tend to his needs at Mirth Farm. Oil arrived; sewage left; wood was delivered to the wood pile; even the doctor, who had only ever been called out in Marie’s time, ensured he paid Doubler a routine visit twice a year. These visits were, on the whole, brief and businesslike – the well-practised exchange of services that had played out comfortably for a long time – and though they offered little in the way of intellectual stimulation, Doubler felt no lack. Mrs Millwood had seen to that.
For five days a week the two of them had sat down and talked. And each day after she left, it wasn’t long before he found himself having imaginary conversations with her in his head. This discourse was not in the same league as the advice he sought from Mr Clarke, the substance of which was rooted in the technical conundrums that their shared passion presented. From Mr Clarke, he sought inspiration of a very specific nature. The little observations he would store away for sharing with Mrs Millwood encompassed everything else that Doubler was capable of feeling, and even if this represented a narrow slice of an adult’s emotional capacity, Mrs Millwood herself had a very developed range of responses from which to draw.
But what did he actually know about her? He now knew a bit more, that she had a wide circle of friends, but before that time, what had he known? That she knitted, yes. That she found great comfort in family and friends. There – friends again! That her husband had died, but not suddenly. He had lugged an oxygen tank around with him for several years. He had got thinner and thinner, more and more uncomfortable, before eventually dying of a massive asthma attack. It had been a blessing. Well, that had been a big difference between Mrs Millwood and Doubler. She had grown used to her husband gradually disappearing in front of her eyes. Whereas for Doubler, Marie had been there one day and not the next. No warning, no preparation. And there had been a choice there for Marie – that’s what he couldn’t forgive her for. Everything she had done, and how she had done it, was a choice she had made. And nowhere in that process had she thought once of him or the impact it would have on him.
Doubler looked around the room and imagined Marie there now. Would she be interested in his potatoes? Would she be proud of him? Would she even care? Perhaps Julian would be whispering in her ear suggesting early retirement and an easy life in a central-heated condo. That is almost certainly what she would have wanted. It was impossible to know now, but when he looked around the room, with his eyes narrowed, he couldn’t imagine her sitting comfortably in any of the chairs. She’d be just getting back from somewhere, or just on her way out with a shopping bag slung over her shoulder and the hood of her anorak already pulled up to protect her from the elements. But she wouldn’t be there, sitting still and talking. Or listening.
Doubler closed his eyes and remembered, as best as he could, Mrs Millwood telling him about the death of her husband, Bert. After a few moments of fierce concentration, her words came back to him and it was as if she were sitting in the room.
‘It was a terrible thing to watch, the man you love dying in front of your eyes. There was so much pain and so much inconvenience. That was the unexpected thing. He was cross with himself and me. I was cross with him, too. It was impossible to live together: it was me and him and that blessed tank. But we talked about it; we talked to death. I was able to talk about why I was angry, and he was able to tell me how very furious he was that he had this terrible debilitation. But, my God, the sound of his breathing was heartbreaking. When he went, it was a relief.’
‘Do you think you were better off knowing? I mean, if he had gone suddenly without any warning, that would have been worse?’ Doubler had asked.
‘Well, yes,