Page 102 of Secret Paths

The path goes quiet around us.

Quiet enough for the words to reach me.

“I am not surrendering anything,” I say.

“I did not say you were.”

“No.”

She closes the tin and rests it in her lap. Bernard’s nose follows the movement with deep professional interest.

“I only mean,” she says, “there is a difference between somebody barging in and somebody sitting beside you.”

I swallow.

Of course I think of Peter.

Peter in my kitchen, sleeves rolled up, telling me cottage pie is mince with a hat. Peter on my bed, fully dressed, holding my hand like it was neither a question nor a claim. Peter suggesting we tell Alexandra and trying not to look hurt when I said no.

Mrs Higgins looks at Bernard, not at me, which makes it easier to breathe.

“You do not stop being yourself because someone shares your bench, love,” she says. “You just have somebody who knows where you keep the biscuits.”

The words are so simple that I almost dismiss them.

Almost.

“That sounds like Bernard’s philosophy.”

“Bernard has wisdom when food is involved.”

“He has food-based priorities.”

“Most honest creature in the village.”

Bernard thumps his tail once, as if accepting the compliment.

I eat the rest of the ginger biscuit, though I barely taste it.

Someone sharing your bench.

Someone knowing where you keep the biscuits.

It should be ridiculous. It is ridiculous. Mrs Higgins is talking about companionship as if it is a tea break with a greedy beagle and a tin of dog biscuits.

Still, the words find a place to sit.

“I do not want somebody moving the biscuits,” I say.

“Quite right. If they start rearranging cupboards without permission, show them the door.”

I glance at her.

She smiles. “But if they only remember where things are because they pay attention, that is different.”

I have no answer to that.

Fortunately, Bernard chooses that moment to attempt to put his nose directly into the tin.