“Morning!”
The old man shuffled past with barely a glance in my direction. Not even the dog paid me any attention.
I felt the smile turn to a rictus on my face. Had I got it the wrong way round? Was it only tourists that said hello to strangers on rural roads?
The old man shunted the woman’s wheelchair over a cobblestone and a folded bit-of-something fluttered out of his pocket. A dying pink butterfly. No. Two fifty-pound notes. They scuttled across the floor, caught on some breeze, and came to a rest at my feet. I caught them with my boot before they could get blown off the bridge and into the river.
I looked up and down the road. There was no one else to notice. I briefly considered my rapidly disappearing savings and the price of replacing my broken windscreen. Then I quietly gathered the notes off the floor, dusted them against my sleeve, and jogged after the old man.
“Excuse me,” I said. “You dropped this.”
The old man looked at me, looked at the notes, then took them slowly out of my hands with a curt nod. Then he turned, farted—a low, singular parp—and went on his way.
I blinked in surprise. I didn’t know why I had even bothered.
My reflection gazed up at me from the river below, expression veiled in shadow.
Well, what did you expect? A fucking parade for not being a thief?
Okay. Maybe the next interaction would be the one. Then I would be better.
CHAPTER 6
On the other side of the bridge, the village of Carlinsrest congregated along the bank of the river and the road that ran alongside it. There were three cafés, which were hard to tell apart, one post office, three restaurants—one tapas, one earthy organic-looking place and a squeaky-clean steak restaurant promising one hundred per cent Aberdeen Angus beef—a tartan shop, one large pub and a green-painted butcher’s. A war monument stood next to the village-end of the bridge accompanied by three gloss-painted benches. Past the few main streets of the village, a handful of cottages and small hotels branched off into the forest and the hills beyond. There was a hardy practicality to the place, all rough-hewn stone and cattle grids. I pursed my lips. From the descriptions online, I’d expected more bunting and hanging baskets and cheery community centres and jam jars. It was still early in the season though. Maybe they’d decorate the place properly later in the summer.
I stopped at the corner shop by the bridge to pick up some supplies. Milk, cereal, bread, cheese, some crackers, a couple tins of beans, soup and chili, and a tin opener. Things I could eat without gas or electricity if needed. I’d found a saucepan in one of the kitchen cupboards back at the cottage, and a set of two forks and a spoon in a drawer. I promised myself I’d do a proper shop later. For now, this would do.
Okay, I thought. Time to go say hello.
I wandered down the road along the river and ducked into one of the cafés.
Maggie’s Café was clean and cheery. It had white painted wood panelling halfway up the wall and everything above that was a pale duck-egg blue. A chalk board listed the various tea and coffee options, and cakes were proudly displayed on ceramic stands with glass covers. I took a deep breath and strode up to the counter.
“Morning,” I said.
An older woman with a plastered-on smile and unsmiling eyes looked up at me from the till.
“Morning,” she said. “What can I get you?”
“What do you recommend?” I’d read that was a good question to ask in new places. Shows curiosity, interest. Starts a conversation.
The plastered-on smile faltered for a moment.
“What kind of thing are you looking for?”
Oh shit. I hadn’t thought of a thing to ask after.
Quick, think of a thing.
“Food,” I blurted, my shopping still clearly on my mind.
The woman with the now-decidedly-unsmiling eyes glanced over at the wide selection of cakes on their stands, the traybakes and scones in the glass-fronted cabinet, and the menu full of hot food up behind her.
‘Food.’ Way to narrow it down, genius.
The woman sighed. “Well, if it were up to me, I’d go for the macaroni pie. It’s not the fanciest, but it’s the best I’ve seen around.”
Thank God! Macaroni pie!
