‘He speaks the Doric,’ she had said. ‘The language of this area. You’ll likely find it difficult to follow what he says.’
I didn’t, actually. His speech was broad and quick, and if I’d had to translate every word I might have had a problem, but it wasn’t hard to catch the general sense of what he meant when he was talking.
Holding my hand out, I said, ‘Mr Keith? Thanks for coming. I’m Carrie McClelland.’
‘A pleasure tae meet ye.’ His handshake was sure. ‘But I’m nae Mr Keith. Ma dad was Mr Keith, and he’s been deid and beeried twenty years. Ye ca’ me Jimmy.’
‘Jimmy, then.’
Jane introduced herself, never content to be out of the action for long. She didn’t exactly nudge me to one side, but she was an agent, after all, and though she likely didn’t even notice it herself, she liked to take control whenever somebody was bargaining.
She wasn’t pushy, really, but she led the conversation, and I hid my smile and let her lead, content to follow after them as Jimmy Keith fitted his key in the lock of the low cottage door, and then with a jiggle and thump of the latch made it swing inwards, scraping the tiles of the floor.
My first impression was one of general dimness, but when the blinds were raised with a rattle and the faded curtains pushed back, I could see the place, although not large, was comfortable— a sitting room, with thinning Persian carpets on the floor, two cushioned armchairs and a sofa, and a long scrubbed wooden table pushed against the farther wall, with wooden kitchen chairs around it. The kitchen had been fitted at the one end of the cottage with the snugness of a galley on a ship. Not many cupboards, nor much countertop, but everything was in its place and useful, from the one sink with its built-in stainless draining board to the small-sized electric stove that had, I guessed, been meant to take the place of the old coal-fired Aga standing solid in its chimney alcove on the back wall.
The Aga, so Jimmy assured me, still worked. ‘It’s a bit contermacious—that’s difficult, like—but it aye heats the room, and ye’ll save on the electric.’
Jane, standing by the front door looking up, made a pointed remark about that being handy. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘I haven’t seen one of these since I rented my first flat.’
I came to gaze up, with Jane, at the little black metal box fixed to the top of the door jamb, with the glassed-in meter and assorted gauges set above it. I had heard of such contraptions, but I’d never seen or used one.
Jimmy Keith looked up as well. ‘Michty aye,’ he agreed. ‘Ye dinna see those ony mair.’
It took 50p coins, he explained, and was fed like a parking meter—run out of coins and the power went off. ‘But nae bother,’ he promised. He’d sell me a roll of the coins and, when I’d used them all, he’d come open the meter and take them back out and just sell me the coins back again.
Jane gave the box one final doubtful look and turned to carry on with her inspection. There wasn’t much left, just a bedroom, not large, at the back, and an unexpectedly roomy bath across from it, complete with footed tub and what the British called an ‘airing cupboard’， open shelves set round a yellow water heater, good for storing towels and drying clothes.
Jane moved to stand beside me. ‘Well?’
‘I like it.’
‘Not much to it.’
‘I don’t need much when I’m working.’
She considered this, then turned to Jimmy Keith. ‘What sort of rent would you be asking?’
Which was my cue, I knew, to leave them to it. Jane had often told me how inept I was at making deals, and she was right. The cost of things had never much concerned me. Someone told me the price, and if I could afford it, I paid it, and didn’t waste time wondering if I could have had the thing for less. I had other things to occupy my mind.
I wandered through again into the sitting room, and stood a moment looking out the window at the headland reaching out into the sea, and dark along its length the ruined castle walls of Slains.
Watching, I could feel again the stirrings of my characters— the faint, as yet inaudible, suggestion of their voices, and their movements close around me, in the way someone can sense another’s presence in a darkened room. I didn’t need to shut my eyes. They were already fixed, not truly seeing, on the window glass, in that strange writer’s trance that stole upon me when my characters began to speak, and I tried hard to listen.
I’d expected that Nathaniel Hooke would have the most to say, and that his voice would be the strongest and the first that I would hear, but in the end the words I heard came not from him, but from a woman, and the words themselves were unexpected.