been on his face since he’d first heard Mrs Millwood’s voice began to fade.
The minutes ticked painfully by, and the longer he stared at the phone, the less able he was to recall his previous sense of purpose. He frowned a little, thinking about who might answer. Would it be Maxwell himself or another of Mrs Millwood’s circle of friends? Would darling Percy answer the phone? This unimaginable cast of characters must indeed be good friends for her to be worrying about them while she was undergoing unspeakable procedures in that place.
He imagined lifting the receiver and dialling the number. In Doubler’s head, the abrasive shriek of the telephone would puncture a room full of laughter. The receiver would be picked up with impatience. Doubler would have to explain himself to a stranger and then to Maxwell, a natural leader no less, who would be compelled to ask what on earth Doubler could offer them. They were a close-knit circle of friends with years of animal care under their belts, and he was a nobody. He didn’t even have a goldfish; he’d only ever cared for potatoes . . . and Marie. And look what had happened to her.
Doubler folded the corner of the page in a neat triangle and returned the book to where he’d found it. He made his way slowly back to the kitchen wondering why he had felt so alive just a moment before. He lifted the lid on the tea caddy, inhaled deeply, frowned and closed the lid again, shaking his head. He studied his potatoes in silence, but finding no answer there, he returned to his seat by the window, raised the binoculars to his eyes and fixed his attention on the driveway with renewed anxiety.
Gracie’s daughter was called Midge, as Doubler had learnt when Mrs Millwood had called from her hospital bed. Satisfied with this knowledge, he observed her arrival and noted the hesitancy with which she tackled the incline’s sharper bends, but there was a degree of enjoyment to be taken in the observation of the differences between these two women, who were so clearly similar in many ways.
‘Morning,’ Midge shouted in a melodic voice as she tried the front door and, finding it open, let herself in. Doubler might have been offended by this rather brazen intrusion, but the days since her last visit had been long and empty, and he was glad for the company.
She had been christened Madeleine, but everyone had always called her Midge. Doubler was a little proud of his own nickname – it had been assigned to him by the butcher, and he liked it for its nod towards his considerable potato-growing skills – but, despite this, Doubler was naturally suspicious of nicknames. Midge, though, suited this spirited woman perfectly, so he had no hesitation in using it. Knowing her name endowed her with another layer of personality so that she was now so much more than just Gracie’s daughter.
‘Goodness me, Doubler. Is this the coldest place on earth?’ Midge exclaimed as she unwrapped a scarf from her neck and hung up her coat on the peg.
Doubler looked out of the window at the scuttling clouds. ‘This is nothing. I wouldn’t say no to another proper cold snap, to tell you the truth. The earth likes it – kills off all sorts of unwanted visitors. And what’s good for the soil is good for my spuds.’
Midge gave an exaggerated shiver at the thought of something colder. ‘I thought I’d drop some groceries in to you – make sure you’ve got the basics for the week. I can’t do this indefinitely, you understand, but Mum was worried and apparently she picks up your order once a week.’
Doubler hurried to help her unpack the brown-paper bags and was delighted that she had not tried to improvise but had simply collected his usual order from the farm shop. Cheese for the pantry, flour and fresh yeast for this afternoon’s bake, some wintergreens and a dozen eggs.
‘I’m surprised, I must say, that you don’t produce some of this stuff yourself. Chickens would be nice company, wouldn’t they? And pigs?’ she said, eyeing the pile of potato peelings spilling out of the compost bin. ‘Pigs would love that lot.’
‘You’re probably right, but it’s just not practical. I’m not sure I could make the commitment. I look after myself and I look after my potatoes, but I wouldn’t want to let anyone else down.’
‘Why would you let anyone down? You barely go anywhere, do you? You’d be just the right temperament, I’m sure. I’d keep animals at home if I had the space.’
‘If I upped and went, I’d let them down,’ said Doubler quietly.
‘Where on earth would you up and go to, you daft thing?’ Gracie’s daughter threw her head back and laughed as she put the kettle on for tea.
‘I don’t know. But I’ll die one day. And then who would look after the pigs and the chickens? The potatoes, well, they’ll turn themselves back into soil eventually, but I don’t like the idea of just abandoning a living creature.’
‘Death? You’re planning for your death? Dying can’t stop you living, you know. Take a leaf out of Mum’s book. You know what she’s taken into hospital with her? Knitting wool and needles. She’s starting a terrifically complicated blanket – I’ve had a look at the pattern. It will take her years to finish, years. I think that’s a really defiant act, don’t you? Death is going to have to want her pretty badly to take her and her knitting needles on.’
Doubler thought about this and liked the image. Perhaps she could knit herself a cocoon that would keep her safe, keep the teeth at bay.
‘I suppose you’re right. I think . . . I think . . .’ He thought some more. ‘I think if you make a commitment to something or someone, you’ve got to see it through. You can’t just remove yourself from the scene without making provisions. Without making sure everyone is going to be OK without you. That kind of behaviour is irresponsible and causes all sorts of pain and harm. I don’t like to think I could do that.’
‘But some hens would be great company for you up here, and you’d have the eggs. I tell you what. I’ll make a commitment to you. If anything suddenly happens to you, I’ll make sure any livestock you have is taken care of. How does that sound?’
To Doubler, it sounded astonishingly kind, this hand of help from a virtual stranger. But she wasn’t a stranger, was she? She was Mrs Millwood’s daughter and she was prepared to help him in one of the ways he needed the most help. To make a commitment to something other than his potatoes. To find love for something and to know that nobody needed to suffer as a result of that love.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, already imagining the joy of having some hens to talk to in the morning. And it was true the potato peelings would certainly fatten a few pigs each year.
‘And what about this produce?’ asked Midge, resuming an air of practicality. ‘Do I need to settle your account for you? Do you need me to drop in on the way back and pay for the groceries?’
‘No. No, that’s fine. There’s nothing to pay. I’ll settle up in April.’
‘Oh.’ Gracie’s daughter shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’ And she took a big slurp of tea. In this, as with so many things, she reminded Doubler of her mother. She knew when to probe and when to leave well alone.
They drank their tea in companionable silence.
‘I’ve placed an ad. Should have some candidates to interview in the next week or two. Shall I bring the promising ones up here?’
Doubler tried his best to compose his face into one of amenable cooperation. But it quickly crumpled.
‘I’m not sure I’m ready. I don’t want to inconvenience you or your applicants, but I’m not quite as adaptable as I lead people to think.’
Midge laughed at the idea. ‘I don’t think anybody would suggest that about you,’ she said, looking around the kitchen and its stark lack of modern gadgetry. Copper pans gleamed on rusty nails, wedged into the crumbling gaps between brickwork. Pewter tankards hung on hooks, and large wooden sieves added a pleasing architecture to the shelves’ contents. There wasn’t a thing in the kitchen that couldn’t have