Chapter 2

I saw the little Cinquecento draw up outside and didn't really think anything of it, apart from wondering if I'd misunderstood my neighbours who I thought had said they'd be away over Christmas. I was reading ... or, rather, sitting in front of an open book, with some Vivaldi playing. I really wasn't in the Christmas mood, and the radio seemed to be dominated by Christmas carols and jingles.

A young woman got out, looked round and trotted up to my door. As I hadn't expected that, it took several seconds for me to process my need to get up and go to the door.

We looked at each other.

"Mister Burgin..."

I spoke without engaging my brain first. "Sandie?"

That smile lit up her face. "Might I come in?"

I stepped back in unspoken invitation and closed the door after her.

We looked at each other.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I didn't mean..."

"How are you?" her voice was serious; her interruption wasn't just a polite nothing.

"Honestly? I don't really know. But I'm taking it one breath at a time. Have you come for your script?"

"Yes and no," she said, "mainly I came because I wanted to see you."

I couldn't think why, but didn't pursue it. "Would you like some coffee? It's decaffeinated, I'm afraid. Caffeine is banned here until the doc says I can have some."

"Yes please."

"Hot milk?"

"Oh, yes, please!"

We sat together at the table to drink our coffee and nibble biscuits. Her proximity was disturbing in several ways.

"I'm glad you decided to be less formal," she began with a smile.

"It ... just ... sort of ... slipped out," I admitted, "I..."

"Never mind," she went on, "as long as you don't go back to 'Miss Saunders'. And I much prefer 'Sandie' to 'Sassy', so, thank you. How did you get on with my manuscript?"

"I think it is good," I said. "I enjoyed reading it. In fact, I was disappointed to run out of reading. I only found a few typos and I made a comment or two. When are you going to let me have the next instalment?"

She frowned. "Depends," she said. "I've got an assignment to finish before January, and my dissertation to work on. But would you mind going through what you have with me?"

We spent an hour talking through one chapter, then she looked at her watch. I half expected her to leap up saying she had to go, but no. "I don't know about you, but I'm hungry. Can I buy you lunch?" was what she said.

"There's no need for that," I protested.

"I think there is," she said, "I'm grateful for your efforts." She was looking at me hard and I thought there was more going on than gratitude.

I shrugged, "I think most of the decent food places near here will be booked up for Christmas parties."

"What about the Grindleford Station Café?"

I looked at her in surprise. "Well..."

"Got any walking boots?"

"Well, yes..."

"Why don't you get dressed for outdoors, we'll have something to eat at the café and take a stroll up Padley Gorge?" Her voice was light and pleasant, but there was a hint of steel underneath.

I didn't really want to stir out of my cosy safe haven but I think there were several things going on in me. Firstly, I didn't have the emotional energy to object. Then, I probably needed to eat and knew it (lack of appetite or no). Also, just having her company was lifting my mood and perhaps I wanted to keep her with me as long as possible. On the other hand, I really hate being driven by other people...

In the end, apathy won out and I followed orders. She wasn't a bad driver; she was patient, concentrated on the road and didn't look at me when she spoke. I couldn't say I was comfortable, but it could have been a lot worse.

The café was crowded, but she found a small table in the back room and told me to occupy it while she ordered our meals. The main room in the café boasts an open fire, at least when the temperature doesn't prohibit it. On a cold day in December that room was packed, of course. We at least had an inside table. Some of the hardier customers were actually sitting at the picnic benches outside.

She didn't consult me as to my preference. Perhaps she realised getting a decision out of me would be an up-hill task, or merely that there was very little on the menu I wouldn't enjoy. Maybe Marjorie had given her some tips. Sensibly, she'd opted for one of the less substantial choices – meat and tater pie, mushy peas and gravy. None of the items on the menu were, or rather are, insubstantial, however, and with my poor appetite I couldn't finish it. But it was tasty. And she had the gift of silence. You know how some people just have to fill a gap in a conversation? We ate our meals amidst a buzz of chatter from the other customers with only sporadic comments, but it was pleasant. I didn't want chatter. Her company was enough, with the understanding I could see in her eyes.

Two weeks of relative inactivity had taken a toll on my fitness. Combined with my inertia, I was puffing long before we reached the head of the gorge, but Sandie just let me choose the pace. I noticed she wasn't short of breath. Neither of us wanted to stand still for long, though, not on a cold, clear winter day. The temperature was somewhere about freezing and the ground was hard, but the sky was clear and the sun shone brightly through the leafless branches above us.

She delivered me back to my 'van as the darkness gathered. I reached for the door-handle and turned to her. "Thanks, Sandie. It's been ... good."

She smiled warmly. "I've enjoyed it," she said.

I opened my mouth again, about to invite her to call me 'Will', but somehow I couldn't get the words out, eventually saying, "Drive carefully; it's icy."

"I will," she said, without a hint of bridling at what some might have taken as an imputation they couldn't recognise the danger. "And you look after yourself, Mister Burgin."

The lift in my mood was sufficient to motivate me to make sandwiches for tea and brew some herbal concoction that's supposed to be a mood elevator. Whatever...

I got to sleep okay, courtesy, at least in part, to the pills, but I dreamed. I didn't remember what, but I woke sweating, with tears pouring down my face and little chance, as I thought, of getting back to sleep. However, a DVD, 'The Hunt For Red October', despite the action element, had me out long before it finished.

The next day saw heavy clouds and sleet. I didn't attempt to do anything constructive and heated tinned soup rather than exerting myself to prepare anything more imaginative and half-heartedly tried to read as my mood slumped again in tune with the weather.

That night I dreamed again. I couldn't remember the details, but Juliet was looking contemptuously at me, Sandie crying at my feet and Celeste was laughing...

When Marjorie knocked on the door, I was still in my ratty sweats and hadn't had any breakfast. I let her in, silent and slow.

"You don't look so good, Will." She squeezed past and made her way to the kitchenette, filled the kettle and set it to boil. "Have you had breakfast?"

I shook my head.

"No, of course you haven't," she said, moving to the fridge. There wasn't a lot in there, but she fetched out eggs and broke them into a basin. She sighed when she saw how little bread I had left, but put some in the toaster and melted butter in a pan. Seeing me just standing there, she pointed at the table. "Sit!" she commanded.

Scrambled eggs may not be my favourite meal, but they were perfectly cooked and seasoned, not soggy and not dried out.

"Eat!" she commanded when she placed them in front of me with a mug of redbush tea, then went back out to her car for several minutes as I did as I was told. When she came back, I'd almost finished. "No arguments," she said, "you will come to have Christmas lunch with Josh and me. You will get up and dress in time to be picked up at eleven o'clock. Got me?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I croaked, unable and unwilling to prevaricate.

"Right now, you'd feel a lot better after a shower and some clean clothes. That beard could stand trimming, too."

"Yes, Ma'am," I repeated.

"I've got to go," she said, "but I'll be annoyed if you don't at least try to make a move."

After she left I did as I was told and had reason to be glad I had. I didn't know, but when she'd gone out to her car, she'd called Sandie. It was much later that I found out they'd conspired ... or should that be colluded? ... to ... manage me, I suppose is the best way I can describe it.

Anyway, Sandie arrived late morning. She looked me up and down then gave a nod of grudging approval. "Better," she said. "Okay. Get your shoes and coat on."

"Beg pardon?"

"I'm taking you shopping," she explained with more than a trace of asperity. "You need food."

"But..."

"Do I have to dress you?"

I sighed and surrendered. She took me to Hathersage. I wouldn't normally patronise the small local shops, but certainly it was better than trekking into Sheffield and fighting through the crowds in Tesco's three days before Christmas. My role, clearly, was merely to pay for the purchases as Sandie gave me almost no choice in what she ... we ... bought.

Back at the 'van, I had no complaints about the crusty bread, cheese and pickle for lunch. After we'd eaten, though...

"What're you doing?"

She was tipping vegetables out onto my work-top and rummaging in my drawers for knives. She gave me a 'silly question, dummy' look.

"Vegetable soup," she said, proceeding to chop onions, carrots, celery, parsnips and herbs into my largest saucepan.

"Why?" I couldn't understand why an attractive, intelligent, young woman should be spending her time on me. I could, sort of, understand Marjorie Hopkins, who was (and still is) a friend, colleague and possessing powerful 'mothering' tendencies. Her kids having grown and left home, she had no-one to mother and I was a nearby substitute. That's what I thought, anyway. She'd been there when Juliet wanted me out; I'd lived in her guest room for several weeks and she knew or guessed most of what had happened. But why was Sandie doing this?