Peter Robinson: Before the poison

‘How much do I owe you for the groceries?’ I asked her.

‘All part of the service,’ Heather said. ‘Consider them a welcome-home present.’ She dropped two teabags from a box of Yorkshire Gold into a blue and white Delft teapot and poured on the boiling water, then she turned to me. ‘England is your home, isn’t it? Only you were never entirely clear.’

Sometimes I wasn’t too sure, myself, but I said, ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, I’m a local lad. Leeds, at any rate.’

‘Well I never. My mother came from Bradford. Small world.’

She pronounced it ‘Brad-ford’. Everybody from Leeds pronounces it ‘ Brat -ford’. ‘Isn’t it, just?’

‘But you’ve been living in America for a long time, haven’t you? Los Angeles?’

‘Thirty-five years, for my sins.’

‘What did you do over there, if it’s not a rude question?’

‘Not at all. I wrote film scores. I still do. I just plan on doing more of my work over here from now on. After I’ve taken a bit of time off, that is.’ I didn’t tell her what I hoped to do during my time off. Talking about a creative project can kill it before it gets off the ground.

‘Film music? You mean like Chicago and Grease?’

‘No. Not quite. They’re musicals. I write the scores. The soundtracks.’

She frowned. ‘The music that nobody listens to?’

I laughed. ‘That’s probably a good way of putting it.’

She put her hand to her mouth. ‘I am sorry. That was so rude of me. I mean, I…’

‘Not at all. Don’t bother to apologise. It’s what everybody thinks. You’d miss it if it wasn’t there, though.’

‘I’m sure I would. Might I have heard any of your music?’

‘Not if it’s the kind you don’t listen to.’

‘I mean… you know…’ She blushed. ‘Don’t tease. Now you’re embarrassing me.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I named a couple of the more famous recent films I’d scored, one a huge box-office hit.

‘Good Lord!’ she said. ‘Did you do that? Really?’

I nodded.

‘You worked with him? What’s he like?’

‘I don’t actually spend much time with the director, but Mr Spielberg is a man who knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it.’

‘Well I never,’ she said. ‘Pinch me. I’m talking to someone really famous, and I didn’t even know it.’

‘Not me. That’s one of the advantages of what I do. I don’t get famous. People in Hollywood, in the business, know my name, and you see it in the credits. But nobody recognises me in the street. It’s sort of like being a writer. You know the old joke about the actress who was so dumb she slept with the writer?’

Heather smiled. The dimples appeared. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But I do now.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be crude. I’m just… you know, sort of anonymous.’

‘But surely the money must be quite good? I don’t mean to be even more rude and pry, but I do know that this house certainly wasn’t cheap.’

‘The money’s good,’ I agreed. ‘Enough so I don’t really have to worry too much, though I do need to keep working for a few more years yet before I can even consider retirement.’

‘If I may say so, you haven’t picked up much of an accent in your time in America.’

‘I suppose not,’ I said. ‘I never really thought about it. Maybe I spent too much of my time in the local drinking beer and playing darts.’

‘They play darts in California? In a local pub?’

‘Of course. The King’s Head.’

‘Is it like a real English pub? All I’ve seen are those dreadful phoney places they have in Spain and Greece.’

‘It’s what the Americans think an English pub should be like. Lots of junk all over the place, padded banquettes, walls cluttered with old photos and posters, Winston Churchill, British bobbies, Union Jacks, the lot.’

‘Well I never.’ Heather poured the tea and carried it over, sitting opposite me at the smooth pine table, careful to put down a couple of coasters before setting the cups and saucers on them. I won’t say she was gazing at me with stars in her eyes, but I was definitely elevated in her view. ‘I got these, too,’ she said mischievously, offering me the packet of McVitie’s chocolate digestives. ‘Bet you couldn’t get these in California.’

‘Bet you could,’ I said. ‘They have a little “shoppe” at the King’s Head. You can buy HP Sauce, Marmite, Branston pickle and Bisto. Probably McVitie’s chocolate digestives as well.’

‘Amazing. Anyway, I think you should find everything in working order,’ Heather went on, clearing her throat and getting back to business. ‘As I told you in one of my emails, the house is centrally heated. I set the thermostat to a comfortable level. It’s in the hall, so you can adjust it yourself if you need to. Watch out, though, the heating bills can be high. Using the fireplaces should help. The door to the coal cellar is under the stairs, and that’s where the firewood is kept. The telephone and Internet connections are in working order – at least, according to the man from BT – as are the satellite television and DVD player you ordered, across the hall. And that’s about it. Oh, before I forget, there’s a form and instructions for getting a television licence. I don’t know about America, but you have to have one here, or they fine you.’

‘I remember,’ I said. ‘My dad always used to complain about paying it. They used to send those little vans with the revolving aerials on top to catch people who hadn’t paid.’

‘They still do. And they’re a lot better at it these days. Anyway, I think you can do it online, if…’

I said I’d been doing most of my banking and bill-paying online for years now, so that raised no problems. ‘I’m sure everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘The owners certainly seem to have left a lot of stuff behind. I didn’t expect quite so much.’

‘Yes. Well, I did warn you. I can arrange for anything you don’t want to be taken away. But we all wanted a quick sale. You, too, as I remember.’

‘No problem. If there’s anything I don’t want to keep, I’ll get in touch and maybe you can help me get rid of it?’

‘I’ll do what I can. Would you like the guided tour after tea, or should I leave you to explore on your own at leisure?’

As pleasant a tour guide as Heather Barlow I could hardly imagine, but I had a craving to be alone in my new home, to learn its surprises, stumble across its hidden nooks and crannies, discover its smells and creaks for myself, and to experience it for the first time in the way I expected to continue living here: alone. ‘I’ll explore by myself, if you don’t mind. Unless you think there’s anything I ought to know.’

Heather hesitated. ‘No… er… not that I can think of. Nothing. Any problems, you can always ring me at home or at the office. I’m sure you have the details already, but I’ll leave you my card in case.’ She dug into her leather handbag.

‘Is something wrong?’ I asked.

‘No. Why? What makes you ask that?’

‘You just seemed a bit flustered by my question, that’s all.’

‘Did I? I can’t imagine why.’

‘Is the house haunted or something?’ I asked, smiling. ‘I mean, it’s so old I can imagine all sorts of things happening here over the years. Serving maids having the master’s baby in secret, you know, all sorts of hush-hush upstairs-downstairs business. Ghostly governesses. Mysterious children. Something nasty in the woodshed. Maybe a gruesome murder or two?’

‘Don’t be silly. Whatever makes you think that?’ Heather Barlow toyed with her hair, wrapping a long strand around her index finger. ‘You do have a vivid imagination. Mind you, I suppose that’s exactly the sort of thing an American would say.’