‘I do apologise, Miss Star.’ Orlando looked like a chastened child. ‘I am completely thoughtless.’ He held the door open for me as I clambered into the back and wedged myself into the tiny space beside the basket, my arms pinned to my sides.
We set off down the leafy country roads, Marguerite and Orlando in the front, both so tall that the tops of their heads almost brushed the roof. I felt rather like a child again, but busied myself by looking out of the window, admiring the beauty of the English countryside.
Orlando talked nineteen to the dozen about books he’d bought and sold, and Marguerite admonished him gently for overspending on Anna Karenina – Mouse had told her, apparently – but I could hear the affection in her voice. Sitting behind her, I was close enough to smell her perfume – a comforting musky scent that filled the car.
Her thick, dark hair fell in natural waves to her shoulders and when she turned to Orlando to speak to him, I saw she had what Pa Salt would have termed a Roman nose, which sat prominently in her striking face. She was certainly not classically beautiful and, from the look of her jeans and old jumper, did not care to make herself more so. Yet, there was something very attractive about her and I realised I wanted her to like me – an unusual feeling.
‘Are you coping back there?’ she asked me. ‘Not far now.’
‘Yes thank you.’ I leant my head against the windowpane as the thick hedges, their height exaggerated by the low car, flew by me, the country lanes becoming narrower. It felt so good to be out of London, with only the odd red-brick chimney stack peeping out from behind the wall of green. We turned right, through a pair of old gates that led to a drive so potholed that Marguerite and Orlando’s heads bumped against the roof.
‘I really must ask Mouse to bring the tractor and fill in these holes with gravel before the winter comes,’ she commented to Orlando. ‘Here we are, Star,’ she added as she pulled the car to a halt in front of a large, graceful house, its walls formed from mellow red brick, with ivy and wisteria fringing the uneven windows in greenery. Tall, thin chimney stacks, which emphasised the Tudor architecture, reached up into the crisp September sky. As I squeezed myself out of the back of the Fiat, I imagined the house’s interior to be rambling rather than impressive – it was certainly no stately home; rather, it looked as if it had gently aged and sunk slowly into the countryside surrounding it. It spoke of a bygone era, one that I loved reading about in books, and I experienced a twinge of longing.
I followed Marguerite and Orlando towards the magnificent oak front door, and saw a young boy wobbling towards us on a shiny red bike. He let out a strange muffled shout, tried to wave and promptly fell off the bike.
‘Rory!’ Marguerite ran towards him, but he had already picked himself up. He spoke again, and I wondered if he was foreign, as I couldn’t make out what he was saying. She dusted him down, then the boy picked up the bike and the two of them walked back towards us.
‘Look who’s here,’ Marguerite said, turning directly to the boy to speak to him. ‘It’s Orlando and his friend, Star. Try saying “Star”.’ She particularly enunciated the ‘st’ in my name.
‘Ss-t-aahh,’ the boy said as he approached me, a smile on his face, before holding up his hand and opening his fingers out like a shining star. I saw that Rory was the owner of a pair of inquisitive green eyes, framed by dark lashes. His wavy copper-coloured hair glowed in the sun, and his rosy cheeks dimpled with happiness. I recognised that he was the kind of child that one would never want to say no to.
‘He prefers to go by the name “Superman”, don’t you, Rory?’ Orlando chuckled, holding up his hand in a fist like Superman taking off into the air.
Rory nodded, then shook my hand with all the dignity of a superhero, and turned to Orlando for a hug. After giving him a tight squeeze and a tickle, Orlando set him down, then squatted in front of him and used his hands to sign, also speaking the words clearly.
‘Happy Birthday! I have your present in Marguerite’s car. Would you like to come and get it with me?’
‘Yes please,’ Rory spoke and signed, and I knew then that he was deaf. I rifled through my rusty mental catalogue of what I had learnt from Ma over two decades ago. I watched as the two of them stood up and walked hand in hand towards the car.
‘Come inside with me, Star,’ said Marguerite. ‘They could be some time.’
I followed her into an entrance hall that contained a wide Tudor staircase, which I could see from the wonderfully turned and carved oak banister was not a reproduction. As we made our way along a passage, the old stone flags cracked and uneven beneath my feet, I inhaled the atmosphere, scented with dust and wood smoke, imagining the thousands of fires that had been lit over the centuries to keep its occupants warm. And felt a definite envy for the woman who lived in this incredible house.
‘I’m afraid I’m dragging you straight to the kitchen, as I have to get on. Please excuse the mess in here – we have God knows how many for Rory’s birthday lunch and I haven’t even peeled the potatoes yet.’
‘I’ll help you,’ I offered as we entered a low-ceilinged room awash with beams, an inglenook fireplace forming the centrepiece with a cast-iron range inside it.
‘Well, you could certainly help by pouring us both a drink,’ she suggested, her open gaze mirroring the warmth and beauty of her home. ‘The pantry is over there; there’s a bottle of gin, I know, and I’m just praying there’s some tonic in the fridge. Otherwise we’ll have to be inventive. Now, where on earth did I put the potato peeler?’
‘It’s here.’ I picked it up from the long oak table, strewn with newspapers, cereal packets, dirty plates and one muddy football sock. ‘Why don’t you get the drinks, and I’ll do the vegetables?’
‘No, Star, you’re our guest . . .’
I had already grabbed the bag of potatoes and taken down a saucepan from a rack. I pulled out what I saw was a week-old newspaper to put the peelings on and sat down at the kitchen table.
‘Well’ – Marguerite smiled in gratitude – ‘I’ll go and get the gin then.’