She nodded and then said, ‘To the sounds of Billie Holiday?’
He became defensive. ‘I don’t know what people listen to when ransacking houses.’
Neither did Lucy. ‘Surely they’d try to make as little noise as possible,’ she reasoned.
‘Which brings me on to my next point,’ he said. ‘The music was ridiculously loud. Why was it so loud?’
She baulked, unwilling to give him an explanation. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Will,’ he said. ‘I live in the cottage between Deux Tourelles and the field and up until five minutes ago I was barbequing in my garden. But the soundtrack was both far too loud and not of my own choosing and I’ve had enough.’ He clamped his jaw shut.
The crackle from the speakers, still connected to the record player, was the only sound in the room as they stared at each other.
‘Sorry,’ Lucy said quietly.
He ignored her, or chose not to respond and instead asked, ‘Where’s Dido?’ He looked around as if Dido might walk into the room any minute.
‘Dido?’ Lucy spluttered. ‘She’s …’ She stopped, and then adopting a softer tone: ‘She passed away. A few weeks ago.’
His mouth opened and he looked horrified. Slowly he said, ‘She died?’
Lucy nodded. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
He sat down on the sofa and looked so shocked she wondered if she should offer a drink to this man who had walked into Dido’s house shouting and ranting.
‘Are you all right?’ Lucy asked, still standing. ‘Did you know her well?’
‘Shit,’ was all he said, slowly.
She stood awkwardly as he looked down at the barbeque tool in his hand. He looked up at her and then stood up.
‘Sorry,’ he said as he walked towards the doorway. She moved back and let him pass.
‘It’s all right,’ Lucy said when they were both in the hallway, although she wasn’t sure whether he was offering condolences for Dido’s passing or apologising for barging towards her.
‘How?’ he asked her when he reached the front door. ‘How did she die?’
‘She went into hospital and then died shortly after. Something to do with her lungs. Think she picked up some kind of infection during the war or after the war … something like that. And, well, also her age.’
He nodded and walked out the front door, then looked back at her, and in particular, the camera she was still holding.
‘Is that yours?’ he asked.
‘No. It’s Dido’s. It was Dido’s I mean. I just found it.’
‘Do you know what it is?’ he asked.
Lucy looked down at it as if it might suddenly have turned into something else. ‘It’s a camera.’
‘It’s really old,’ he said. ‘Be very careful with it.’
She put his patronising tone down to the shock of having found out his neighbour had just died. ‘OK, I will,’ she said between gritted teeth. But he had turned and gone out through the front door, which she realised now she had left unlocked when returning from the shop.
She stared after him. ‘Bye then,’ she called out in a sarcastic tone to his retreating figure.
But he neither called out to her by return nor waved an acknowledgement. He simply carried on walking.
Lucy spent a fitful night not sleeping, playing the day through in her mind. The argument, the slap, the man from the cottage scaring her, shouting at her and then leaving. Before bed, she’d looked out of her window to the cottage but all the lights must have been off inside because she couldn’t glimpse it in the darkness.
