Death Departed

Chapter Six

Daylight is fading into darkness as we make our way back to the cottage from the market. Grease from a bag of roasted peanuts is staining my hands and I’m peering out of the tinted car windows at the blur of cobbled sheds and shacks and stumpy grape vines. Some old 1930s jazz song is playing away quietly on the radio.

“Almost there.” Quinton says with a warming smile. His jumper has clumps of pine and bracken tangled in it from when he had helped drag the Christmas tree into the back of the truck: on my lap beneath the bag of roasted peanuts is a glittery gold star that will adorn the top of the tree. The remaining evidence of our trip is crashing around on the back seats; boxes crammed with silver tinsel and fairy lights and tacky baubles.

“That was fun.”  I reward Quinton’s smile with one of my own. “ I think that I could quite happily live here forever. No one would even know I exist!”

“Me too.” Quinton agrees.

We look at each other and I’m struck by how familiar his face seems. It feels like I have known him forever.

***

The cottage looks different in the dark. We unload the boxes then position the tree to the right of the stove in the lounge. I pack the groceries into the kitchen drawers and start soaking pasta sheets for our lasagna. Quinton puts some music on the speakers then comes and stands beside me with a chopping board and a carton of tomatoes. Our elbows brush against one another and my heart beats faster: every time we touch I brace myself for an electric shock but it never comes.

“It’s strange to think that I’ve known you my whole life yet you don’t know me.” Quinton says. He sounds disappointed.

I shrug. “Maybe some unconscious part of me knew you were there. I feel like I can trust you.”  My mouth feels dry, like I’ve been swallowing sand. “We have time now,” I continue, “will you tell me more about who you are?”

Quinton takes a nervous breath. “I grew up in Dorset on the coast. We have a manor house down there and a small estate. My mother, Marianne, lived with me in that house while my father worked and lived in London. Once a month he’d drive down for the night then leave again before breakfast the next morning. I was terrified of him as a child, though I suppose he had my best interests at heart.” He clears his throat, “I think the only reason my parents are still married is because they never see each other. My mother is ten years younger than my father and in personality they are an unlikely match. Both have been having affairs with other people since before I was born. I don’t know how they were attracted to one another in the first place.”

“Are you close to your mother?”

“I was once but my efforts always backfire. I was the child she thought she couldn’t have and she initially made huge efforts. I think her love for me subsided once I was no longer such a novelty.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing new. Sometimes I think it must be better not to know your past.”

I shake my head, “At least you have your identity.”

Quinton finishes savagely chopping the tomatoes then gently stirs them into the saucepan.

“Quinton?” I hesitate. He senses my delay and looks up. “What happened in this house?”

I can feel him tense beside me. “Here? Nothing. Why?”

“I just had a feeling.”

“Have you got the white cheese sauce?” He asks abruptly.

I hand it to him quickly. “Look, I’m sorry.”