Sara Waters - Dancing with Mr Darcy - Stories Inspired by Jane Austen

She turned over a page of Dr Johnson’s works that lay on her small table.

‘What then is to be done?’ she read. ‘The more we inquire, the less we can resolve.’

True, thought Mrs Ferrars, but she relished the challenge of inquiring nonetheless. That was what being a detective meant.

My inspiration: Elinor Dashwood seems to be surrounded by mysteries and people telling her their secrets, so I thought it would be fun to cast her in the role of a detective and cross Sense and Sensibility with The No 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency.

Dear Jane. I’m on my way to Orkney. At last! I hope you don’t mind first name terms. ‘Miss Austen’ sounds too distant and, even though we are separated by two centuries, I feel you are the one person who will understand where I’m coming from. Love. Isn’t that the biggest question of all? I’ve stumbled from lover to lover with the thirst of someone lost in the desert. For the last two months I’ve thought of nothing but being here in Kirkwall – with Aidan. I have roughly known him for two years. He has brown eyes, sings songs about picking blackberries and can find a joke in anything. He bakes cupcakes filled with apple pieces and cinnamon, and walks everywhere. The last time I saw him he put new strings on my guitar.

I’m travelling all this way, chasing love. Imagine a great mechanical bird, big enough to hold one hundred people, and then picture it 20,000 feet high, flying above the clouds. We chase all over the world like this, in a matter of hours. There’s still enough looking-out–of-the-window time, which I’m sure you will agree is an essential travelling companion. From my tiny window on the plane to Orkney I can see the hills around Edinburgh lie snug under a blanket of faded green velvet, and the snow on top of the Cairngorms, like gentle spills of cream. From 16,000 feet, the string of islands looks like tiny, far away worlds. When we come down to land all I can see is the sea and then some grass and then we’re bumping along the ground.

I know what you must be thinking. I admire Aidan, and yes – I think I have begun to love him. I’ve pictured us getting married and having a child and we’re living in a cottage by the sea, growing vegetables. This is all quite hazy and only gazed at in the fleetest of moments. The pursuit of love is the one activity where I have boundless foolishness and daring.

Aidan meets me at the tiny airport and hugs me tight. We grin at each other like excited children. Then we drive to the sea. I have to change my shoes and while I’m lacing up my boots the clips I’d carefully put in my hair at 6 a.m. blow out in the wind. Aidan doesn’t seem to notice. We charge off down the path and through a gate that Aidan points out isn’t of the kissing sort; and then we run down to the beach. I find four stones marked with circles. Aidan does this thing where he picks up a stone to show me and as soon as I say, ‘Oh that’s nice,’ he throws it into the sea! He’s so funny. I can hardly keep up with him; he springs up the rocks like a goat. We share the last three pieces of my Cadbury’s Caramel – chocolate that ordinarily I would eat all myself. It’s the strangest feeling flying into the moment I’ve been thinking about for so long.

We run back along the path, pushing each other towards puddles. This is a basic form of what you called the Art of Flirting, I think. As we stand on top of the cliff catching our breath, Aidan says he would like to take some time out to do his music while I’m here, which I say is absolutely fine, even though my heart drops like a stone. We drive to Kirkwall, the main town hunkered down in the bay, the houses and buildings clinging together like barnacles. We have a lunch of chicken and coriander soup that Aidan has made then we walk into town to the museum. It’s about to close so we pass all the glass cabinets filled with artefacts and have a go at building the model of the cathedral made out of colour-coded blocks to show when each bit had been added. We make our own design with a red turret, a blue east wing and an orange vestry.

Afterwards we go to Tesco’s. There are no small shops anymore, only enormous buildings where you can buy everything. We mess about, talking loudly and laughing and Aidan knocks packets of spaghetti off the shelf. People frown at us as if we are drunk. Then Aidan stares at a pretty girl with dark hair. When we pass her a second time he stands transfixed. We walk back across the quay and he says that the girl was a runner-up in Miss Scotland. ‘Really?’ I say. ‘I didn’t notice.’

Aidan races up and down the stairs. All this rushing. He reminds me of Dustin Hoffman in The Graduate. It’s the part when Dustin Hoffman is on a date with the girl he really likes, but he’s charging off in front of her and she can hardly keep up. He leads her into a strip joint (where women dance around bare-breasted in a suggestive manner. You wouldn’t believe it, but this was Women’s Rights in the 20 thcentury). Dustin Hoffman gawps at the naked women, and the expression of the girl shows her confusion and hurt. I should explain that we have things called Films. They are a little bit like looking at a mirror filled with the reflections of people acting out scenes, like in a play – but you can watch it all and it seems real. If only you could see your Mr Darcy, Jane. He’s been in two film versions of Pride and Prejudice, and you’d be hard-pressed to choose between Colin Firth and Matthew Macfadyen. They’re both dark eyed and smouldering.

It’s the end of my first day. Aidan and I have just watched a film. We sat on the sofa together, me in the middle and Aidan leaning up against the far corner. The film claimed to be scary but it wasn’t. There was a bit where the man and the woman got stuck in a passionate embrace, inside a ruined church deep in snow. When they started undoing each other’s buttons I said to Aidan – things could get chilly. He sniffed, a sort of laugh but not laugh. When the film finished Aidan yawned. He’s given up his bed (a double bed) for me, which is kind, and his towel too. I’m lying under his freshly washed sheets, all fired up. My heart is racing. When I saw myself in the mirror I had that sparkly-eyed look of someone who’s falling for someone.

It’s only the first night and I can’t sleep. I think about when I last saw Aidan. He stayed with me for two nights. It was freezing and we walked for miles through the wood to reach the village pub. Over two pints Aidan told me of the time he nearly died but held on because his friend was there and he didn’t want to let his friend down. We walked back through the wood after dark. The moon was full and its silver light gleamed off the naked trees. When we got home and warmed ourselves in front of the fire, all I could think about was covering Aidan’s face with soft kisses. Instead I poked the logs in the fire. He reached out and touched my hair. We played roulette until we could play no more; then we said goodnight.

Wednesday. It doesn’t look like it’s raining but it is. We sit in the kitchen drinking Guatemalan coffee and watching the ferry push its way through the bay to Shapinsay. I imagine you did a great deal of tea drinking and looking out at the rain. Outside in the field a pattern of oystercatchers are digging for worms with their long, orange beaks. Aidan keeps singing the first line of ‘Getting to know you’. We fall into one of our talks. Aidan likes to pull apart the reasoning of life, to show there’s nothing holding it up but perception. He says he feels no desire, and asks me, ‘What is a person?’ I try to explain that we are driven beings with the need to make sense of the world and the people in it. He asks me, ‘What is anger?’ I try to explain about emotions, how necessary they are. I say that as far as I can see, his views are a form of defence. He says that if you stare at a single point for long enough, everything else in your vision blacks out.