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‘Would you two youngsters like to come in for a moment and have a glass of lemonade while I draw you a little map to put you back on the right road? My name is Walter, by the way. Walter Simpson.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Walter. We’d love to,’ said Finn with such shocking lack of self-preservation, I decided we’d be having a little talk later on the subject of ‘stranger danger’.
Walter had already turned around with a cheery ‘Follow me’ and disappeared down the hallway.
‘Is this wise?’ I hissed at Finn as we crossed the threshold. ‘What if he’s dangerous?’
We both looked at Walter, who’d stopped to pick up a walking stick to aid his journey from front door to kitchen.
‘If things get iffy, I think I can take him,’ Finn said, his lips twitching in amusement.
The kitchen was circa 1970 and instantly transported me back to my grandparents’ home. Despite the dated units and elderly white goods, it was a bright and sunny room and looked out on to an enormous back garden.
Walter was rummaging in a cupboard for glasses while I was scouring the room for a pot plant I could surreptitiously tip my drink into. Almost as though he was reading my mind, Finn gave me an enormous wink.
Surprisingly, Walter produced a jug of old-fashioned homemade lemonade from the fridge. He set it down on a vintage Formica kitchen table that would probably have fetched a fortune on eBay.
‘You’ll like this,’ said Walter confidently, pouring out three glasses. ‘It’s my Alice’s recipe.’
He took one of the lemonades and lifted it to his mouth, gulping it down with old-man, lip-smacking enthusiasm.
‘Is Alice your wife?’ I asked, looking around the kitchen as though his elderly partner might be hiding somewhere.
‘She was,’ Walter said, setting his glass back down on the table, his hand trembling in a way it hadn’t just moments before.
‘She took ill last year. She got the cancer.’ He shook his head sadly, as though he was still struggling to come to terms with the tragedy. ‘I always thought it would come for one of us. There isn’t a day that passes when I don’t wish it had been me.’
‘I’m really sorry to hear that, Walter,’ said Finn compassionately.
I reached for my glass, ashamed of my foolish suspicions, and took a sip. It was just the right amount of sweet and sour.
I smiled across the table at our unexpected host. ‘Alice certainly knew how to make good lemonade.’
Walter smiled. ‘Aye. She did.’
*
We chatted to the old man about the house while he drew the most detailed and convoluted directions map I’d ever seen. He put Google to shame.
‘Have you lived here a long time?’ I asked Walter’s bent head as he laboriously filled in landmarks we had no need of on the sketch.
‘All of our married life,’ he said with a sad smile. He glanced towards the front door. ‘I carried her over that threshold as my bride fifty-five years ago and then helped them carry her back over it in a mahogany casket last year.’
Unexpectedly, I felt my eyes fill with tears. Beneath the table, Finn reached for my hand and squeezed it.
‘It’s a very beautiful old house,’ Finn said.
Walter looked up with a new brightness in his rheumy eyes. ‘Would you like a little tour?’
I don’t think I’d ever felt so torn. We were already horribly late for the party, but I sensed the loneliness in the elderly widower. How many visitors did he get, I wondered? And hidden less nobly beneath that thought was a burning curiosity to look around his wonderful house.
‘We’d love to, if it’s not putting you to too much trouble,’ said Finn.
Walter needed his stick to get to his feet, and I felt Finn tense in readiness as the old man wobbled briefly before somehow managing to locate his centre of gravity.
‘My daughter worries about me living alone in this big old place since her mum passed,’ he explained, walking in slightly jerky steps. ‘She thinks I’ll take a fall and lie here for days with no one to help me.’ Walter’s gait seemed to improve the further we progressed across the quarry-tiled kitchen floor. ‘I keep telling her I’d be fine if it wasn’t for arthritis.’ He pronounced it ‘Arthur Rightus’, as though the condition was a particularly troublesome neighbour he had to contend with. I hid a smile and knew, without even looking, that Finn was doing the same.
It was a slow tour through the house, covering not only the downstairs rooms but also all four of the generously proportioned bedrooms. I was glad of our snail-like progress, for it gave us more opportunity to appreciate every last detail of the house. It was a sweet torture, because it was clear from his commentary that every room held beloved memories of Walter’s late wife, Alice. Of course he’d never want to leave it.
