Free Damascus by Richard Beard

he’d asked her to call him Henry. Oh the unwavering Miss Burns and her unmistakable voice, strict and beautiful. He took a deep breath.
    â€˜Miss Burns,’ he said. 'I would like to invite you to lunch.’
    â€˜We are not going to meet up. I’ve told you so before.’
    â€˜It’s my last day.’
    â€˜Not today. Not tomorrow. Never.’
    'I wanted to thank you. I went to your house.’
    Wherever Miss Burns was, it went very quiet. He thought she might be looking at her watch. Then he thought she might have gone, so it was a great relief when at last she spoke.
    â€˜I’m not at home. There’s no point you going there again.’
    â€˜Perhaps we could meet somewhere else.’
    â€˜I’m not getting through to you, am I, Henry? Maybe when you came to my house I was there, but I didn’t open the door because I didn’t want to see you. Have you thought about that?’
    â€˜I know you weren’t there,’ Henry said. ‘If you were there you would have opened the door. It’s our destiny to meet.’
    â€˜I’m going now, Henry. Enjoy the flight back to Tokyo.’ 
    'One last question.'
    'No more questions, Henry, I'm sorry. Goodbye.'
    Very deliberately, Henry turned off his telephone and placed it back on his plate. She'd called him Henry. He looked up at his father and smiled a sudden and dazzling smile, developed over years of being surprised by excellent presents. One of his two front teeth, the one on the left, was completely brown, of so even and deep a colour it was like a choice made from a colour-chart in a paint catalogue.
    'She said yes,' Henry said. 'She'd love to meet me for lunch.'

4
    Attitude makes a tremedous difference.
    THE TIMES 11/1/93
    11/1/93 M ONDAY 9:24
    This was a perfect example of a time not to be frightened, and not to act like her mother. Henry Mitsui wasn't going to find her here, especially if she stopped answering her phone, and tomorrow he ought to be back in Japan. If he wasn't then she could call the police, so there was no good reason to be frightened.  Waiting for Spencer to get back from the library, Hazel had made a complete tour of the house. Many of the impressive rooms were mostly empty, with perhaps just the  odd chair or table to suggest how they might be furnished given the will and the means, and the furniture. She looked closely at the scattered paintings: a Van Gogh reproduction, posters of a Lowry and a Vermeer, an original E. H. Shepherd  Wind in The Willows  illustration of Mole in a snow-storm. She also recognised a Rowlandson and a Vanessa Bell because she’d once offered a course in  British Painters and Painting .
    Eventually she’d decided to settle down with 
Sir John Magill's Last Journey
 in the ground floor dining room which overlooked the garden, and by the time Spencer found her she felt quite at home in the comer of an ancient and enveloping sofa. Spencer pulled a chair out from under the polished table. He sat on it backwards, and asked her if she’d seen William anywhere.
    'If he’s the oldish man who looks a bit like Fellini, then yes.’
    â€˜How like Fellini?’
    â€˜Tall, chubby cheeks, grey hair. Late middle-age and still growing.’
    â€˜He didn’t say anything to upset you, did he?’
    â€˜He didn’t see me. He was just standing there, staring at the front door. I didn’t like to disturb him.’
    â€˜He’s scared of going out because he thinks it’s the end of Britain. I'd better go and check on him.’
    â€˜You didn’t see him when you came in?’
    â€˜I came in the back way. I won’t be a minute.’
    â€˜In that case,’ Hazel said, ‘you can do me a favour.’ She turned off her phone and threw it across to him. I’ve just decided I'm taking a holiday,’ she said. ‘And it starts right now. Put the