Free A Lady Cyclist's Guide to Kashgar by Suzanne Joinson Page A

urge to pat his head.
    ‘Yes. I am, yes.’
    He nodded, held out keys and a brown envelope. Without a smile. Without asking her for ID, for anything.
    ‘We need the keys back and the flat empty by the twenty-first,’ he mouse-squeaked. ‘You can post them into the safe box at the town hall, or you can bring them into the office. If you haven’t cleared by then the salvagers will be in.’
    ‘OK.’
    He pulled himself up, as if to leave, and Frieda asked, ‘Can I just check, am I down on the system as Irene Guy’s only next-of-kin? Is there anyone else? Does it say who I am exactly, in relation to her?’
    ‘Don’t you know?’ He looked at her, frowning. There was a pause, long enough for a car to drive past, a Jack Russell’s snout poking out of the passenger’s window. It yap-yapped as the car passed. A cloud moved, exposing the sun.
    ‘Of course,’ Frieda faked a laugh. ‘I was just curious to know what is on your system. It is always interesting to know . . . what information is held.’
    His fingers stroked the keys on his mobile phone. He looked to Frieda as though he only ever ate homemade sandwiches, and perhaps occasionally soup. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, squinting at her, ‘your name just comes up as the main contact.’
    ‘Right,’ she said, ‘cheerio then.’ Frieda watched him walk away from her in the direction of the cemetery. The young mother with the buggy was just up ahead, and looked back once more at Frieda and at the young man in his misshapen jacket, shaking her head, as if disgusted with all these strangers on her patch. Written across the envelope in red biro it said GUY. DEATHS. REF 1268493.

Possibilities: Instead of a few squares, you know several towns; instead of an acquaintance with the country for a few miles about, you can claim familiarity with two or three counties; an all-day expedition is reduced to a matter of a couple of hours; and unless a break-down occurs you are at all times independent.
    9. A Lady Cyclist’s Guide to Kashgar – Notes
    June 7th
    I must attempt to get this down – our new home: Pavilion House, which is in fact two houses, separated by a track. The Eastern side is where we sleep, all four of us in a single room, with a kang built into each recess. As glass is rare and expensive here the windows are covered with paper. The Western part is what Millicent calls ‘the business side’ and consists of a large, attractive courtyard with two rooms leading off it, and a third leading off one of those. The courtyard has that mysterious element, as if the walls are turned inward and are intent on protecting inhabitants from the desert outside. There is a simple fountain in the centre, not as striking as Mohammed’s, but pleasing none the less, as the sound of water is welcome in this land of dust. Pots of fig trees have been tended by a previous owner, as has jasmine growing finely along the walls. Two Chinese guards are on permanent station at the house gates to ‘protect’ us. Behind the house is a large garden that leads to an enclosed, unkempt orchard.
    Lizzie and I traipsed like children behind Millicent, whose movements are always impatient, as she instructed us: the large divan room is for entertaining guests; the second room is for scripture study and the housing of our books and materials; and the final much smaller room is the kitchen. Millicent met the landlord alone. Lizzie and I were disappointed – we were keen to see the crooked face. He lives in Hami and so leaves a representative in the city for our liaisons. Millicent, whether through canny and mischievous insight or coincidence, I don’t know, has assigned me a most challenging of tasks: I am to be in sole charge of the kitchen, if kitchen is what one can call the cramped corner with a hodgepodge stove made from some old paraffin tins and no windows to speak of. The rules of the house are thus: Lizzie, garden; Millicent, all things cerebral, spiritual and conversational; and me,