Free Passing On by Penelope Lively Page A

place is too young and the White Hart is too elderly. I hoped this might fill the gap — it’s new, apparently.’
    The restaurant struck Helen as unlikely to survive long in Spaxton: the menu was ornate in every sense and the prices high.
    There was hardly anyone else there. It was also elegantly under lit; she had difficulty in picking out Giles until she spotted the gleam of his silver hair in a far corner. He jumped to his feet as she approached and fussed around with her coat; his hand lay for an instant on her shoulder.
    ‘It’s fine,’ she said.
    ‘Are you sure? I’ve been having misgivings about the decor.
    We could always do a bolt somewhere else.’
    ‘Not now they’ve got my coat. And you’ve unfolded your napkin.’
    ‘So I have. Sheer nervousness.’ That winning smile. ‘Well, we’re stuck with it. Shall we get the rather boring business bit over first or do you want me to stow it away until the coffee?’
    There was some matter of the whereabouts of share certificates, it turned out, and an explanation about probate and how long it took. It occurred to Helen that all of it would have gone nicely into a letter; quite a short letter. She sipped her sherry and thought about this.
    ‘There!’ he concluded. ‘Honour is satisfied. Now tell me what you’ve been doing? How is the young man with green hair? By the way — the Earl Grey has been an absolute treat. I think about you every time I brew myself a cup — not that I wouldn’t do that anyway but the combination vastly cheers up breakfast, always a slightly dismal time these days. What do you have for breakfast?
    I’ve been imagining you in that amazing kitchen, and your brother except of course that he is a blank since we haven’t met.’
    The trouble about this multi-faceted style of conversation was that it left you not knowing quite which bit to deal with first.
    Helen, a little breathless, tried to talk and attend to various unspoken responses and queries. She felt both heady and in some way disadvantaged. The food was rather good; wine at lunchtime was of course always a mistake but one could repent that at leisure, later on.
    Various things emerged, also to extend their impact later.
    Carnaby & Proctor had only become thus four years ago, when the Carnabys had moved down here from London since Gillian Carnaby, already ill, had wished to spend her last years elsewhere.
    Then old Mr Proctor had retired, as anticipated, leaving Giles in partnership with young Simon. Giles rather missed London at times, but was adjusting. There were compensations.
    (What were they? Who were they?) The house was pleasant enough but Giles was not good at housekeeping. The son, a marine engineer, was abroad. Giles enjoyed long muddy walks, preferably in company (whose?), opera, sweet and sticky puddings (the choice of dessert occasioned much heart-searching) and travel books of the 1930s. He sang in an amateur choir on Monday evenings, voted Liberal, was allergic to strawberries and had bicycled across France when he was twenty. He didn’t know one end of a car from the other, could never see the point of Picasso but accepted that he was probably an ignoramus, seldom drank spirits and liked to do a little mild gardening. He had a gold filling rather far back in his mouth that glinted when he laughed heartily. He paid bills with Access.
    ‘Good grief — it can’t be three-thirty! Is service included, do you imagine? I can never tell with these things. I feel as though I’ve been going on about myself in the most shameless way.
    What a nice patient woman you are.’
    He laid his hand on hers. There it rested for several seconds, until the waiter arrived and there were things to be done with wallet and credit card.
    ‘And you never did report on the green-headed nephew.’
    ‘He seems to be giving trouble,’ said Helen. ‘My sister was complaining.’
    ‘Adolescence is quite fearful. Be thankful you’re not a parent.
    Though you would be a marvellous