The Pebblewick Chronicles - Chapter 10 - Saturday

Saturday

Dorothy’s Delivery

Dorothy had been in the shop since nine o'clock that morning.

By now she no longer arrived looking quite so apprehensive. The nervousness had not vanished entirely, but it had settled into something more manageable.

She still carried her notebook everywhere.

She still wrote almost everything down.

And she still approached every task I gave her as though the continued survival of The Salty Page depended upon its successful completion.

That morning I entrusted her with a particularly important assignment.

Reverend Finch's book.

The volume on headstones had been sitting behind the counter ever since Scott delivered it on Thursday. I had intended to take it to Horace myself, but Thursday had rather escaped my control.

A London solicitor, a church hall, a contested will, missing relatives, and the discovery of an unexpectedly valuable art collection had all proved more urgent than gravestones.

So on Saturday morning I placed the book in Dorothy's hands.

“Would you mind taking this to Reverend Finch?”

She studied the cover.

“Headstones?”

“Yes.”

“Did he order it?”

“Apparently.”

Her brow furrowed.

“You don't know?”

“I know he ordered it. I'm merely less certain whether he remembers ordering it.”

A smile appeared.

“Should I collect the money?”

“If possible.”

That immediately prompted the appearance of the notebook.

“How much?”

I told her.

She wrote the figure down with the concentration of a bank auditor.

“And if he doesn't remember ordering it?”

“Remind him.”

Her pencil moved.

“And if he still doesn't remember?”

“Show him the book.”

Another note.

“And if he says he never ordered it?”

I considered the matter.

“Bring it back.”

She nodded gravely and recorded that instruction as well.

Then, with the book tucked securely beneath her arm, she departed for St Bartholomew's.

She returned roughly twenty minutes later.

“Well?”

“He remembered.”

I blinked.

“The book?”

“Yes.”

“Ordering it?”

“Yes.”

“Are you absolutely sure you spoke to Reverend Finch?”

Dorothy laughed.

“He paid for it too.”

That was even more remarkable.

She placed the money on the counter.

“Did he say why he wanted a book about headstones?”

“Yes.”

I waited.

Dorothy looked at me with complete seriousness.

“He said he wanted to read it.”

There are occasions when a question receives precisely the answer it deserves.

I put the money in the till.

One customer order successfully completed.

With Reverend Finch involved, I considered that an excellent beginning to the day.

Elizabeth Calls In

Elizabeth arrived at The Salty Page later that afternoon to see how Dorothy was getting on.

Dorothy stood behind the counter, notebook open beside her, carefully checking through a small stack of customer orders.

She had settled into the shop remarkably quickly.

More importantly, she seemed to understand a principle it had taken me years to appreciate.

Anything written down was far less likely to be forgotten.

Reverend Finch remained living proof of the alternative.

Elizabeth watched her daughter for a moment, her expression unmistakably proud.

“She’s doing well.”

“She is.”

“You’re pleased with her?”

“Very.”

Dorothy continued working while pretending not to listen.

She was not especially convincing.

“I told you I'd be useful,” she said.

“You did.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“I'm so pleased. She talks about the shop all the time at home.”

Dorothy glanced up.

“Mum.”

“What?”

“You don't have to tell him everything.”

Elizabeth gave me an apologetic smile, one I had seen often enough on Dorothy to recognise its origins immediately.

Then something occurred to her.

“Oh! That reminds me. I've got something for you.”

“For me?”

“Well, information.”

That was immediately more concerning.

In Pebblewick, information rarely travelled alone.

Elizabeth lowered her voice.

“Mrs Thistlewood told me about Mr Milton-Price.”

I glanced across the shop.

Mrs Thistlewood was rearranging books several shelves away.

Apparently volunteering at The Salty Page now included operating an informal village intelligence service.

“And she mentioned you're having trouble finding his family,” Elizabeth continued.

“We don't know where they are,” I said. “Or in some cases whether they're still alive.”

“That’s exactly what I thought.”

Suddenly she looked excited.

“I might know somebody who can help.”

Archibald Winterbottom

Elizabeth opened her handbag.

This initiated an excavation.

A purse emerged first.

Then a set of keys.

Two receipts.

A handkerchief.

A shopping list.

Something wrapped carefully in silver paper.

And finally, buried near the bottom, a small address book.

“Here we are.”

She began turning pages.

“I've been researching my own family history.”

“Have you?”

“For a couple of years now. Well, somebody's been helping me. I wanted a proper family tree, and once you get beyond grandparents everything becomes much more complicated than you'd imagine.”

“I can believe that.”

“So I hired a professional researcher.”

She traced a finger down one page.

“He's been wonderful. Thorough, patient, and remarkably persistent. Births, marriages, deaths, census records, old addresses. The lot.”

Dorothy looked up from behind the counter.

“You said he found relatives you didn’t even know existed.”

“He did.”

“That sounds useful,” I admitted.

“Exactly.”

Elizabeth smiled triumphantly and tapped the page.

“Here he is.”

She read the name aloud.

“Archibald Winterbottom.”

I waited.

Some names deserve a moment's silence.

“Archibald Winterbottom?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

Elizabeth looked puzzled.

“Why?”

“No reason.”

Pebblewick already possessed a Constable Moss, a Doctor Heal, and an organist named Dashing who possessed no inclination whatsoever toward speed.

Archibald Winterbottom scarcely seemed worth questioning.

“He's based in London,” Elizabeth continued. “Very professional. Very responsible. And extraordinarily helpful.”

She copied the details onto a scrap of paper and handed it across the counter.

ARCHIBALD WINTERBOTTOM
FAMILY HISTORY RESEARCHER
LONDON

Beneath the name she had carefully written his telephone number.

“He might be able to trace the Milton-Price family,” she said. “If you give him the names you already have, he could probably discover what became of them.”

Augustus.

Jack.

James.

Jane.

And whatever descendants might have followed in their wake.

I studied the slip of paper.

Constable Moss had promised to make enquiries.

Simon Atkinson needed to establish precisely who remained alive before Lawrence Milton-Price's estate could be settled.

And now, entirely by chance, the mother of my Saturday volunteer had walked into The Salty Page carrying the contact details of a professional genealogical researcher.

Mrs Thistlewood appeared at my side with the silent efficiency of a cat.

I had not heard her approach.

“Archibald Winterbottom,” she said, reading over my shoulder.

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied. “He researched my family.”

“Any surprises?”

Elizabeth hesitated.

“A few.”

Mrs Thistlewood immediately became far more interested.

I folded the paper and slipped it into my pocket.

“No.”

She looked at me.

“What?”

“We are not investigating Elizabeth's family.”

“I wasn't suggesting we should.”

“You were thinking about it.”

Mrs Thistlewood looked mildly offended.

Elizabeth laughed.

Dorothy shook her head and returned to her paperwork.

The matter, at least for now, was settled.

I patted the folded paper in my pocket.

On Thursday, Simon Atkinson had given us four names.

By Saturday, Pebblewick had somehow produced a man who might be able to find them.

Sometimes I wondered whether the village possessed an unusual talent for solving problems.

At other times, I suspected it simply refused to leave them alone.

The Telephone Call

After Elizabeth left the shop, I looked again at the slip of paper she had given me.

ARCHIBALD WINTERBOTTOM
FAMILY HISTORY RESEARCHER
LONDON

And beneath it, a telephone number.

Mrs Thistlewood was still browsing the shelves.

Dorothy was behind the counter with her notebook.

Both appeared to be waiting for something.

“Well?” said Mrs Thistlewood.

“Well what?”

“Are you going to telephone him?”

I looked down at the paper.

Apparently, I was.

So I picked up the telephone and dialled the number.

The call was answered after only a few rings.

Elizabeth had described Archibald Winterbottom as professional, responsible and exceptionally helpful.

Within moments, I suspected she had understated the matter.

His voice was calm, measured and quietly authoritative.

“Archibald Winterbottom speaking.”

I introduced myself and explained how I had obtained his details.

“Mrs Queen? Yes, indeed. How may I help you, Mr Quibble?”

I outlined the situation.

A resident of Pebblewick had recently died.

A will had been discovered.

Several relatives were named within it.

Unfortunately, nobody seemed entirely sure where those relatives were, or, in certain cases, whether they were even still alive.

Mr Winterbottom listened patiently.

When I had finished, there was a brief pause.

Then came the questions.

“What is the purpose of the research, Mr Quibble?”

“To establish the surviving relatives of Mr Milton-Price.”

“For the administration of an estate?”

“Yes.”

“Very good. What information do you already possess?”

I began with the basics.

“Lawrence Milton-Price. Deceased.”

I could hear a pen moving.

“His elder brother was Augustus Milton-Price.”

More writing.

“Augustus had three children. Jack, James and Jane.”

“Dates of birth?”

“No.”

“Dates of marriage?”

“No.”

“Last known addresses?”

“No.”

“Dates of death?”

“We don't know whether they're dead.”

A short silence followed.

I had the distinct impression I was not proving to be one of his more informative enquiries.

“That,” said Mr Winterbottom pleasantly, “is presumably why you require my services.”

I liked him immediately.

“Yes,” I said. “That's exactly why.”

“Anything further?”

I thought for a moment.

“Augustus served in the Army during the war.”

“Useful.”

“He was once reported killed.”

The scratching of the pen stopped.

“But he survived?”

“Apparently so.”

The writing resumed.

“He later returned to Pebblewick for his parents' funerals. On at least one occasion he brought his wife and children with him.”

“Excellent.”

It was probably the first time anyone had described Mrs Watkins' recollections as excellent evidence, but I doubted she would object.

Mr Winterbottom continued his questions.

I answered what I could.

For everything else, I was forced to admit that I had no idea.

There was rather a lot of that.

Eventually he moved on.

“What type of family tree are you seeking?”

I glanced at Mrs Thistlewood.

She looked back expectantly.

Until that exact moment it had never occurred to me that family trees came in varieties.

“How many types are there?”

“Quite a few.”

Of course there were.

He proceeded to explain them.

Ancestor trees.

Descendant trees.

Collateral branches.

Full genealogical studies.

Supporting certificates.

Research reports.

Documented family histories.

The longer the explanation continued, the more I feared we might accidentally commission a comprehensive history of the Milton-Price family stretching from modern Pebblewick back to William the Conqueror.

“We don't need anything enormous,” I said hastily.

“How far back would you like the research to go?”

I considered the matter carefully.

Our real problem was not discovering where the Milton-Prices had come from.

It was discovering where they had gone.

“Perhaps back as far as the great-grandparents,” I said. “Enough to establish the family properly. But our principal interest is following Augustus's line forward.”

“Identifying surviving descendants?”

“Exactly.”

“That is entirely reasonable.”

I heard another note being made.

“Once the family structure has been established, I can trace the relevant lines forward through birth, marriage and death records. Where possible, I can also identify current or recent addresses.”

That sounded remarkably close to exactly what Simon Atkinson required.

“Excellent.”

“There is, however, one further matter, Mr Quibble.”

Something in his tone suggested this was about to be the most practical part of the conversation.

“Yes?”

“Who will be paying my fee?”

I said nothing.

Mrs Thistlewood raised an eyebrow.

Dorothy looked up from her notebook.

It was an extremely sensible question.

It was also one I had entirely neglected to consider before telephoning a professional genealogist in London.

“There is an estate,” I said eventually.

“Mr Milton-Price's estate?”

“Yes.”

“And there is a solicitor acting on its behalf?”

“Yes. Simon Atkinson, of Atkinson and Carmichael.”

There was another brief pause.

Then Mr Winterbottom sounded completely satisfied.

“That should present no difficulty.”

“It shouldn't?”

“Not at all. I regularly undertake beneficiary-tracing and genealogical research for solicitors. In circumstances such as these, it is perfectly normal for reasonable research costs to be met by the estate, subject, of course, to the solicitor's formal authority.”

That final qualification sounded important.

“So I should speak to Mr Atkinson?”

“I would recommend that he instruct me directly. If you provide him with my details, he may contact me at his convenience.”

The relief I felt was considerable.

For several minutes I had been wondering whether I had inadvertently commissioned an expensive investigation in my own name.

“I'll do that.”

“Once I receive instructions, I can begin immediately.”

“How long do you think it will take?”

“That depends entirely upon what the records reveal.”

A thoroughly professional answer.

Simon Atkinson would undoubtedly have approved.

Mr Winterbottom took my contact details, repeated the names back to me, and assured me that he would await formal instructions from Atkinson and Carmichael.

I thanked him and replaced the receiver.

Mrs Thistlewood was still watching me.

“Well?”

“He can do it.”

“I told you Elizabeth said he could.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He would quite like somebody to pay him.”

Mrs Thistlewood looked mildly surprised.

“For a moment,” I said, “so would I.”

Dorothy laughed.

I folded Archibald Winterbottom's details and placed them beside Simon Atkinson's card.

On Tuesday we had not even known Lawrence Milton-Price's Christian name.

By Thursday we had acquired a will, an elder brother, three potential heirs, an art collection and a London solicitor.

By Saturday we had added a professional genealogist.

At this rate, by Monday we would need a secretary.

I glanced towards Dorothy.

She was already writing diligently in her notebook.

Perhaps, I reflected, we already had one.

An Invitation

The remainder of Saturday proved rather busier than I had anticipated.

A steady procession of Dorothy's friends appeared throughout the afternoon.

Some bought books.

Some bought postcards.

One spent nearly twenty minutes examining the shelves before purchasing a bookmark.

I strongly suspected several of them had come less for the stock and more to observe Dorothy performing gainful employment.

I did not object.

Any young person voluntarily entering a bookshop was welcome to stay as long as they pleased.

Dorothy coped admirably.

She operated the till with growing confidence, found books for customers without difficulty, and whenever she encountered something she was uncertain about, she calmly wrote it down in her notebook for future reference.

Mrs Thistlewood observed all this with the satisfied expression of someone taking personal credit for the success of an employee she had recruited to a business she neither owned nor managed.

Late in the afternoon, the telephone rang.

Dorothy was closest.

She picked up the receiver.

“The Salty Page. Good afternoon.”

I glanced across.

Very professional.

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

Another.

“Yes, he's here.”

Dorothy looked briefly in my direction before looking away again.

That was slightly concerning.

She listened.

“All right.”

A further pause.

“I can ask him.”

She put down the receiver.

Then she remained standing beside the telephone.

Something had changed.

For the first time all afternoon, she seemed nervous.

Not the nervousness of dealing with customers.

Something entirely different.

She crossed to the counter.

“Harold?”

“Yes?”

“That was my mum.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Oh yes.”

She hesitated.

The notebook remained firmly closed.

That alone suggested this was serious.

“She was wondering something.”

I waited.

Dorothy looked as though she would rather have been asked to explain advanced mathematics to Captain Haddock.

Eventually she spoke.

“She wanted me to ask if you'd like to have coffee with her after work.”

For a moment, I simply stared.

“Coffee?”

“Yes.”

“With your mother?”

“Yes.”

There was a brief silence.

I found myself facing a question I had not encountered in rather a long time.

Was I being invited for coffee?

Or was I being invited for coffee?

The distinction seemed significant.

Dorothy, meanwhile, was still waiting for an answer.

From the corner of my eye, I noticed that Mrs Thistlewood had become exceptionally quiet.

That was never encouraging.

I considered the proposal.

It had been a demanding week.

There had been a dead farmer, a London solicitor, a disputed inheritance, missing relatives, an unexpected art collection, a professional genealogist, and considerably more of Mrs Watkins than most medical professionals would recommend.

Coffee sounded entirely reasonable.

“Yes,” I said.

Dorothy brightened.

“Yes?”

“Yes. Tell her I'd be delighted.”

“Okay.”

She immediately produced her mobile telephone and typed out a message.

I attempted to return my attention to the book lying open before me.

This proved almost impossible.

A moment later, Dorothy's telephone chimed.

She read the reply.

“Mum says, is five o'clock all right?”

“Yes.”

“At The Merry Teapot?”

I nodded.

“Five o'clock at The Merry Teapot.”

Another message was dispatched.

“There,” Dorothy said. “She says she'll see you then.”

“Good.”

Dorothy returned to the till.

I remained where I was.

Five o'clock.

Coffee.

The Merry Teapot.

Elizabeth Queen.

I was fairly certain I had just agreed to a date.

Then again, perhaps it was merely coffee.

The difficulty was that I no longer possessed the faintest idea where the boundary between those two things lay.

I glanced towards Mrs Thistlewood.

She was rearranging a shelf.

Unfortunately, it was a shelf she had already rearranged twice that afternoon.

“Don't.”

She turned innocently.

“I haven't said anything.”

“No.”

“But I wasn't going to…”

“Still don't.”

A smile appeared.

That was somehow worse.

I looked at the clock.

For most of the week I had been occupied with identifying the heirs of a deceased farmer.

Now, with very little warning, I had acquired an entirely different problem.

What exactly was one supposed to wear for coffee at five o'clock when one was not entirely certain whether it was a date?

Apparently, Saturday had not yet finished with me.

Coffee at Five

I had fully expected to arrive first.

I did not.

Elizabeth was already there.

She sat at a table by the window where the late afternoon sunlight fell across the room. She wore a light summer dress that suited the warmth of the evening, and her chestnut-brown hair rested loosely about her shoulders.

When she saw me, she smiled and raised a hand in greeting.

I waved back.

She looked lovely.

At that point, any lingering uncertainty began to disappear.

This was definitely coffee.

I crossed the room and took the seat opposite her.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Harold.”

“Have you been waiting long?”

“Only a few minutes.”

I was absurdly relieved by that.

Almost immediately, Molly appeared beside the table.

She looked at Elizabeth.

Then she looked at me.

Then she looked at Elizabeth again.

“What can I get you both?”

We ordered coffee.

As she turned away, Molly caught my eye.

Then she winked.

I closed my eyes briefly.

Pebblewick was going to be completely unbearable by Monday.

While we waited for our drinks, I told Elizabeth about my conversation with Archibald Winterbottom.

“I called him after you left the shop.”

“You did?”

“Yes. He thinks he can help.”

Her face brightened.

“I knew he would.”

“He's prepared to trace the Milton-Price family. At least, he will be once Simon Atkinson formally instructs him.”

“That's wonderful.”

“He also raised the question of who was paying for it.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“I should have warned you.”

“Yes. There was a brief period during which I suspected I had accidentally commissioned several hundred years of genealogical research at my own expense.”

“I wouldn't have let you.”

“That's reassuring.”

Our coffees arrived.

Molly placed mine in front of me.

This time she refrained from winking.

I appreciated the restraint.

Elizabeth

As the afternoon softened into evening, the conversation gradually drifted away from wills, missing heirs and family historians.

Instead, we began talking about ourselves.

Elizabeth told me more about her life.

She had been divorced for several years.

“Dorothy's father isn't really part of our lives anymore.”

There was no bitterness in her voice.

Only the quiet disappointment of somebody who had long ago accepted a difficult reality.

“He doesn't bother much with either of us.”

“I'm sorry.”

She gave a small shrug.

“We manage.”

From everything I had seen, they did considerably better than that.

She told me about her work at a dental practice in town.

“I like the people,” she said. “The job's fine.”

“But?”

She smiled.

“Is it that obvious?”

“A little.”

“I just don't think I want to do it forever.”

“What would you rather do?”

She hesitated.

Then her expression brightened.

“I've been thinking about starting my own business.”

That immediately caught my attention.

“What sort of business?”

“I'm not entirely sure yet. Either a gift shop or a boutique. Something small.”

“In Pebblewick?”

“Yes.”

“There aren't many empty shops.”

“There is one.”

“Which one?”

She smiled.

“The one beside yours.”

I stared at her.

“The empty shop next to The Salty Page?”

“That's the one.”

I knew it well.

I walked past it every morning when I opened the bookshop and every evening when I locked up.

For months its window had displayed nothing but dust and an increasingly optimistic TO LET sign.

“You've seriously been considering it?”

“A few times.”

“To rent?”

“Possibly. I haven't spoken to the owner yet.”

“That explains something.”

“What?”

“I thought you were admiring my window display.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“I did admire your window display.”

“Thank you. That represents nearly twelve minutes of concentrated effort.”

She shook her head, still smiling.

“I've always liked the idea of building something of my own,” she said. “A nice little shop. Gifts, cards, homewares. Perhaps clothing. Somewhere people enjoy visiting.”

“You should do it.”

She looked genuinely surprised.

“You think so?”

“If it's what you want.”

“I'd have to be sensible. Rent, insurance, stock, rates.”

“Yes. All the exciting parts.”

She laughed.

“I suppose you know all about that.”

“Unfortunately.”

“What do you think Pebblewick needs more? A gift shop or a boutique?”

I considered the question carefully.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you're asking a bookseller or Mrs Thistlewood.”

“Bookseller.”

“An excellent decision.”

She smiled.

“I haven't made up my mind yet. It might never happen.”

I looked at her.

“But you want it to.”

This time she didn't hesitate.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I think I do.”

I understood that.

There is a particular satisfaction in unlocking your own door each morning.

And if Elizabeth took the shop next to mine, she'd be unlocking hers beside mine.

I found myself rather liking that idea.

The Bookshop

“What about you?” she asked. “How did you end up owning The Salty Page?”

“I inherited it.”

“You inherited a bookshop?”

“From a distant cousin.”

She smiled.

“How distant?”

“Distant enough that discovering I was in his will came as something of a surprise.”

“And he simply left you a bookshop?”

“More or less.”

“That must have been unexpected.”

“It was. One day I had a distant cousin. The next I had several thousand books, a leaning building on Harbour Street and a letterbox that whistles in a west wind.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“And you kept it?”

“I did.”

“Why?”

I took a moment before answering.

“At first I wasn't sure I would. I thought seriously about selling it.”

“What changed your mind?”

“I opened the door.”

She waited.

“The shop had been closed for a while after my cousin died. I came to inspect the place and decide what to do. I unlocked the door, walked inside, and spent the entire afternoon wandering around the shelves.”

“And that was enough?”

“Almost.”

I smiled.

“There are worse inheritances than a bookshop by the sea.”

“There certainly are.”

“So I stayed.”

“And you've never regretted it?”

“Ask me after Mrs Watkins spends forty-five minutes discussing the ending of a novel she knows I haven't read.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“But no,” I said. “Not really.”

Over the years, The Salty Page had become less a business and more a village institution.

People came for books.

For information.

For shelter from the rain.

And occasionally to discuss matters that had absolutely nothing to do with them.

“That sounds lovely,” Elizabeth said.

“It has its moments.”

Things We Liked

Eventually Elizabeth asked,

“How long have you been single?”

I took a sip of coffee.

Books were far easier subjects than personal history.

“A number of years.”

“By choice?”

“Partly.”

I considered the question.

“I've never felt much interest in being with somebody simply because I don't want to be alone. I'd rather value people for who they are. If the right person comes along, that's what matters. Not simply filling an empty chair.”

Elizabeth watched me quietly.

“That's a good answer.”

“It wasn't prepared.”

“That's why it's a good one.”

She smiled.

“Dorothy thinks very highly of you.”

“I think very highly of Dorothy.”

“She loves working at the shop.”

“She deserves to. She's excellent.”

“That means a great deal to her.”

We finished our coffees.

Neither of us seemed particularly eager to leave.

Eventually Elizabeth glanced towards the harbour.

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

“Yes.”

“And perhaps get some chips?”

That required remarkably little thought.

“Definitely.”

The Harbour

We stopped at The Codfather and bought a bag of chips to share before walking down towards the harbour.

“The gulls will be waiting,” I warned.

“That makes it more interesting.”

I looked at her.

Clearly she lacked sufficient experience of Pebblewick gulls.

We found a bench overlooking the water.

For several glorious minutes everything was peaceful.

Then the first gull arrived.

A second landed on the harbour wall.

A third began circling overhead.

“They're organising,” I said.

Elizabeth laughed.

A gull swooped.

She snatched the chips back just in time.

“Oh!”

“I did warn you.”

“It nearly got one.”

“That wasn't an attack.”

“What was it?”

“Reconnaissance.”

Another gull descended.

I threw a chip several feet away.

The gull pursued it.

Elizabeth copied me.

Before long we had entered into an uneasy diplomatic arrangement whereby occasional chips were sacrificed in exchange for temporary peace.

It worked.

Mostly.

“I think we're feeding them,” she observed.

“We're negotiating with them.”

“By giving them food?”

“Pebblewick diplomacy.”

She laughed again.

I discovered I rather enjoyed making her laugh.

Goodnight

The chips vanished more quickly than expected.

Some were eaten by us.

Several achieved higher ambitions and were consumed by gulls.

The distribution seemed unfair.

To us.

Afterwards we remained on the bench, listening to the harbour.

Water lapped gently against the boats.

A rope tapped rhythmically against a mast.

Voices drifted from farther along the quay.

And somewhere nearby, a disappointed gull complained that dinner service had ended.

Eventually Elizabeth checked the time.

“I should probably go.”

“I'll walk you to your car.”

“You don't have to.”

“I know.”

We walked back together.

Her car stood near the far end of the promenade.

When we reached it, we stopped.

“I enjoyed tonight,” she said.

“So did I.”

“Even the gulls?”

“Despite the gulls.”

She smiled.

Then she leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

I had not been expecting it.

Which, I suspect, was obvious.

She smiled again.

“Would you like to do something again?”

“Yes.”

The answer arrived considerably faster than several others I had given that evening.

She laughed.

“Soon?”

“I'd like that.”

“Good.”

She opened the car door.

“Goodnight, Harold.”

“Goodnight, Elizabeth.”

I watched her drive away.

Then I turned and began walking home.

The harbour settled quietly into evening behind me.

For most of the week my thoughts had been occupied by Lawrence Milton-Price.

His death.

His farm.

His will.

His missing heirs.

His unresolved mysteries.

For once, none of those things seemed especially important.

I walked home feeling happier than I had for a very long time.

It had, I decided, definitely been a date.

And a very good one.