Free Kethani by Eric Brown Page B

she would like to go for a meal, but stopped myself just in time. I told myself that it would seem crass, as if she had to accept the invitation in payment. In fact, the coward in me shied away from escalating the terms of our relationship.
    “Call it fifty,” I said.
    She gave me a fifty euro note and I hurried from the house, part of me feeling that I had escaped, while another part was cursing my fear and inadequacy.

    I found myself, after that, visiting my father on Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday. Sunny View seemed a suitably neutral venue in which to meet and talk to Elisabeth Carstairs.
    I even found myself looking forward to the visits.
    About two weeks after I repaired her wall, I was sitting in the lounge with my father. It was four o’clock and we were alone. Around four-thirty Elisabeth would emerge from her mother’s room and we would have coffee in the library.
    I was especially nervous today because I’d decided to ask her if she would like to come for a meal the following day, a Thursday. I’d heard about a good Indonesian place in Bradley.
    I’d come to realise that I liked Elisabeth Carstairs for who she was, her essential character, rather than for what she might represent: a woman willing to show me friendship, affection, and maybe even more.
    We had a lot in common, shared a love of books, films, and even a similar sense of humour. Moreover, I saw in Elisabeth a fundamental human decency, perhaps born out of hardship, that I detected in few other people.
    “Who’re you, then?”
    “Ben,” I said absently, my thoughts miles away.
    He regarded me for about a minute, then said, “You always were bloody useless!”
    I stared at him. He had moments of lucidity: for a second, he was back to his old self, but his comment failed to hurt. I’d heard it often before, when the sentiment had been backed by an ability to be brutal.
    “Dry-stone walls!” he spat.
    “Is that any worse than being a bus driver?” I said.
    “Useless young...” he began, and dribbled off.
    I leaned forward. “Why don’t you go to hell!” I said, and hurried from the room, shaking.
    I sat in the library, staring out at the snow and shaking. I wondered if, when my father was resurrected and returned, he would have any memory of the insult.
    “Hello, Ben. Nice to see you.”
    She was wearing her chunky primrose parka and, beneath it, a jet-black cashmere jumper.
    “You don’t look too good,” she said, sitting down and sipping her coffee.
    I shrugged. “I’m fine.”
    “Some days he’s worse than others, right? Don’t tell me. Mum’s having one of her bad days today.”
    More than anything I wanted to tell her that I cared nothing for my father, but resisted the urge for fear of appearing cruel.
    We chatted about the books we were reading at the moment; she had loaned me Chesterton’s Tales of the Long Bow, and I enthused about his prose.
    Later, my coffee drunk, I twisted the cup awkwardly and avoided her eyes. “Elisabeth, I was wondering... There’s a nice Indonesian restaurant in Bradley. At least, I’ve heard it’s good. I was wondering—”
    She came to my rescue. “I’d love to go,” she said, smiling at me. “Name a day.”
    “How about tomorrow? And I’ll pay.”
    “Well, I’ll get the next one, then. How’s that sound? And I’ll drive tomorrow, if you like.”
    I nodded. “Deal,” I said, grinning like an idiot.

    I was working on a high sheepfold all the following day, and I was in good spirits. I couldn’t stop thinking about Elisabeth, elation mixed equally with trepidation. From time to time I’d stop work for a coffee from my Thermos, sit on the wall I was building, and stare down at the vast, cold expanse of the reservoir, and the Onward Station beside it.
    Ferrymen came and went, delivering the dead. I saw Richard Lincoln’s Range Rover pull up and watched as he unloaded a container and trolleyed it across the car park and into the Station.
    At five I made my way home,