‘Have you ever had two flat tyres at the same time?’ he asks.
It looks like the back wheel has been slashed as well. It’s the same with the other two.
Someone really doesn’t want us to leave.
Robin
Robin lets herself back inside the cottage and locks the door. She takes a small red towel from a hook on the wall, then wipes the snow from the dog’s feet, legs, and belly, before taking care of herself. He wags his tail while she dries him, then licks her face. Robin smiles, she likes all animals, especially dogs like this one. Even Oscar the rabbit has warmed to their new house guest.
By now, the visitors will know that the chapel belonged to Henry and that he is dead. Robin wishes that she could have seen their faces when they found the headstone, but she and Bob were long gone by then. He’s a very friendly and affectionate dog – even if he does bark at the wind occasionally – the kind who trusts everyone.
It’s cold, even inside the cottage. Robin lights the fire and sits down on the rug next to it, trying to warm her bones. She misses her pipe but that’s gone now, so she opens a packet of jammy dodgers. The dog lies down by her side resting his chin on her legs, staring up at her while she eats, hoping she might drop something. Robin likes to nibble each biscuit, biting off tiny pieces of the outer edges until only the jam centre is left – making the pleasure it brings her last as long as possible.
Despite sitting so close to the open flames, she can still hardly feel her hands. Her fingers were a rainbow of red and then blue after using them to wipe all that snow off Henry’s headstone. But the visitors never would have found it if she hadn’t, and she needs things to stay on track. There is a reason why she invited them here this weekend, and not any other.
Robin remembers when Henry died.
‘I need you to come.’
That’s what he said when he called. Not ‘Hello’ or ‘How are you?’ Just five little words. I need you to come. He didn’t need to say where, even though they hadn’t spoken for such a long time. He didn’t need to say why either, but he did.
‘I’m ill,’ were the two extra little words offered when she didn’t reply. That turned out to be rather an understatement.
She knew Henry had sold his London flat by then and was living in his Scottish hideaway full-time. He’d always been a hermit who preferred his own company. What she didn’t expect, was that she would be the one he would call in his hour of need. But then having nobody else was one of the few things they had in common. Writers are capable of creating the most elaborate and popular worlds, sometimes leaving rather small ones for themselves. Some horses need blinders to do what they do best and win the race. They need to feel alone and with no distractions. Some authors are the same; it’s a solitary profession.
Silence cannot be misquoted. It was one of Robin’s mottos. But when she still didn’t speak, the phone line crackled, and Henry spoke once more before hanging up.
‘I’m dying. Come or don’t come. Just don’t tell anyone.’
She can still hear the dial tone now if she closes her eyes.
He explained later that he had run out of change for the hospital payphone. Insisted that he had not been deliberately dramatic or rude. Robin didn’t believe him. She never did. But she got in the car anyway, because life can be as unpredictable as death.
She didn’t recognise the man perched on the edge of the hospital bed. His last official author photo had been taken at least ten years earlier, and Henry had not aged well. The trademark tweed jacket looked too big, like it belonged to someone else, there was no silk bowtie, and all that was left of the shock of white hair were a few thin strands, combed over his pink balding head. It seemed odd that his face was not more familiar to her, but then people lose touch all the time. Distance wasn’t a deciding factor in such matters. Even neighbours living side by side don’t always know each other’s names.
There was no greeting. No hug. No thanks.
‘I want to go home,’ was all he said.
Robin watched as Henry signed the release forms using a fountain pen taken from his inside jacket pocket. His shaky fingers gripped the barrel so hard that the bones in his hand looked like they might burst through his paper-thin skin. She waited without a word while he initialled various statements to acknowledge that he was leaving the hospital against medical advice.
The hospital was over an hour away from Blackwater, and they sat in silence for the entire journey along winding Highland roads. Once back inside the chapel he had turned into a home, Henry hobbled through to the lounge that he had turned into a library, beckoning for her to follow. Then he opened the secret door in the back wall of books. Robin wasn’t impressed – she had seen it before – but it was the first time he had ever invited her inside his study.