Don Winslow - A Cool Breeze on the Underground

The frenetic Border Collie would gather the sheep into a rough circle, and then the shepherd would shout, “Gate!” and the dog would drive the sheep headlong through the gate and up the trail, barking and nipping at recalcitrant heels. Other times, the shepherd would walk well ahead, his mind on foxes and stouts, and Neal and Allie would hear his shout from a distance. The dog didn’t care; he knew his job. The voice was good enough. This ritual became a favorite part of their day, and they tried to time the walk to the rhythms of the dog and the shepherd.

As Allie got stronger, she would push herself farther, leading them out of the meadow and up the hill on the other side. Much to their surprise and delight, they found a small, deep pond over the opposite hill and decided that one afternoon they would go back and swim.

The return walk was usually slow and leisurely, but they rarely spoke. It was as if they feared words would bring the real world back, and the real world was too full of memories, and pain, and problems.

And heroin. And Colin. And heroin.

The walk always made them hungry. After the first week Neal trusted her enough to leave her at the cottage while he hiked down into the village to replenish their stores. He didn’t want to attract any more attention than he had to by bringing the Keble, London plates and all, into the tiny village.

For lunch, they would have bread, cheese, and fruit. Canned soup on colder days. Sometimes thick slices of ham with mustard. Allie’s appetite improved by the day, and Neal always ate like a pregnant horse anyway, so lunch was a big occasion. They ate outside when the weather let them, on a table they had made from an old door and two sawhorses. They drank cold tea, syrupy lemonade, or plain water. Neal would have loved a beer, warm or no, but was afraid to let Allie have any, and equally reluctant to be selfish by drinking in front of her.

They napped after lunch. She would fall exhausted into her own bed in the large bedroom, while Neal would settle into his own bed in a guest room. At first, he didn’t sleep-suspicious that this nap bit was a dodge for her to sneak off. But she was truly tired, especially if it had been a rough night, and the exercise and fresh air did her in. Him, too. He’d try to read but would fall asleep after a few minutes. One of those deep, heavy sleeps. One afternoon, they climbed the stairs together, arriving at their respective doors at the same time. They stood in the hall for a long moment before Neal turned and went into his room. He shut the door behind him and realized that he had never done that before. He opened it quickly, to see her standing there, looking hurt and scared, and they both laughed a nervous laugh. She reached out and took his hand, gave it a quick and gentle squeeze, and went into her room. She left the door open.

He went to his own bed and flopped down on it. Jesus, Neal, he thought. Just Jesus, that’s all. He meant to brood on the whole thing for a long time but fell asleep instead. After that afternoon, it became another ritual. They would climb the stairs together, pause in the hallway, she would squeeze his hand, and they would go to their separate beds.

They would sleep for a couple of hours or so, rising in the late afternoon to start the preparations for their supper and her bath. She began to take over the chore of heating her own water, and after a couple of days could easily manage getting in and out of the tub, to Neal’s simultaneous relief and regret. The late afternoons could get heavy, with doubts and fears sneaking in with the approaching dark. She would really start to feel the need again, and get jumpy and edgy-hostile.

It often rained in the late afternoon, the day brooding along with them, the dark sky mocking their darker thoughts: she of dope and parents and lover left behind, he of the reality that was coming fast as summer waned, of those same parents, and Friends of the Family, and nominations to high office, and decisions that could not be put off much longer. They thought about a truth she didn’t want to know and he didn’t want to tell.

So it was a tense silence that colored their late-afternoon teas. Forced inside by the weather, they would sit by the fire and sip their tea, pointedly reading old paperbacks, and the quiet was not something they shared but something that divided them.

They were in the cottage for two weeks when the visitor came. Neal returned from a supply run in the village one afternoon, to find Allie pouring tea for the shepherd. The collie lay by the fire, savoring an oatmeal cookie. The shotgun was in the corner behind the door.

“Pardon the intrusion,” the shepherd said, getting up. “My name is Hardin.”

“I’ve seen you work the sheep,” Neal said, looking at Allie, who gave him a warm, domestic smile.

Hardin continued: “The missus tells me you’re here on honeymoon. Bit different, that.”

Okay, Allie, Neal thought, if you want to play…

“Actually, I’m working on a book deal.”

“Honey, I thought you wanted to keep it a secret. Neal is very shy, Mr. Hardin… it’s his first big sale.”

Yeah, she wanted to play, all right.

“Lot of money in books, is there?” Hardin asked. He had a face like crinkly leather, etched by wind and sun. Gray eyes peeked shyly out from under heavy gray eyebrows, and his shy smile cracked the heavy bush of his gray beard. Long silver hairs flourished in his ears. He looked woolly, like an old ram.

“In this one, we’re hoping-may I warm that up for you?” Allie asked. She was having fun, and Neal had not seen her have much fun before.

“Perhaps your mister would like some,” Hardin said gently.

“I’m sorry, darling. I’ll be right back.”

Hardin stuck his hand out. “Just to make it proper, Ivor Hardin.”

“Neal Carey.”

“Ohh, your wife uses her maiden-”

“Yes, she does.” Whatever it is. “What’s the dog’s name?”

“Jim.”

“Good name.”

“Good dog.”

Allie returned with a mug of tea for Neal, then sat down. She had a couple of hundred questions for Hardin about being a shepherd, and he was totally charmed by the time he had taken three more cups of tea and five more oatmeal cookies. He lived alone, it turned out, and had for some years, and Jim was the only company he usually had. Mr. Keyes made it up only a few times a year anymore, so Hardin wasn’t used to seeing folks in the cottage. Not folks as pretty as the missus, meaning no offense.

“Life on the moor is lonely, to be sure,” he allowed, “but I wouldn’t live anywhere else and the dog is used to it. It’s as hard to find a good working dog these days as it is to find a good working man, and when Jim gives it up, I expect I will, too. Move to the village and become a nuisance to the widows.”

“I can’t imagine you as a nuisance,” Allie said, and Neal believed she meant it.

“Kind of you, missus, me already having eaten half your biscuits. Next time I come calling, I’ll shoot the rooks out of your garden to pay for my pudding.”

He pointed his beard at the shotgun and winked.

“We don’t have a garden,” Allie said.

“I know,” Hardin answered, springing his little joke. Everyone laughed except Jim, who’d probably heard it already.

Hardin finished off his tea, put an oatmeal cookie in his coat pocket-“For Jim”-and said his thank-yous and goodbyes. Allie told him to stop in anytime.

And he did, usually around teatime.

It was after one of Hardin’s visits, after an hour or so of playing house, that Allie lapsed into a sudden quiet. She fidgeted for about twenty minutes, then asked, “So when we get back to the States, and sell the book… split up the money… then what?”

He was ready with a clever response.