"That's the problem with Australian women," I replied, winking at him.
"They keep coming back."
I drove out of town on the old Oldfield road, quiet now, since the coming of the motorway. There is a transport cafe, famous for its wholesome meals and warm atmosphere, where all the truckers stopped on their journey over the Pennines. It has had to contract, grass over the lorry park, and change the menu, but it has, thankfully, survived.
Nowadays they make a decent living from a handful of drivers who remember where they are and hordes of senior citizens who know where to find a tasty bargain. And now me. One time, I was a regular at all the cheap eateries. I'd have to start finding my way around them again. No more sneaking away at lunchtime for trout in almonds at Annabelle's. I'd miss that. I ordered lasagne, with salad, and sat facing the telly, to give me something mindless to think about.
A man in a jacket the colour of a ruptured gall bladder was reading from a sheet of paper. "For five points, Dorothy," he whispered intimately, as if asking for her dying testament, 'can you tell me the name of… the first man to run the mile in four minutes?"
"Roger Bannister!" she screeched, as the camera panned to an open-mouthed matron clutching her hands to her head. The whole world was ganging up on me. I moved to the chair at the opposite side of the table, my back to the telly.
The lasagne was not bad, for lasagne. I followed it with rhubarb crumble and a refill of tea. Today, I'd eaten well. Annabelle would be proud of me. No, she wouldn't. There I go again, I thought.
When I reached home I took the envelope in with me. A list of a couple of thousand names and addresses is my idea of bedtime reading. The mailman had left an avalanche of correspondence spilling halfway along my hall. I gathered them up and took them into the kitchen to look at while the kettle boiled. One from the bank was put to one side for future reference and I binned missives from the AA, Damart and Reader's Digest. A note from my window cleaner said I was three payments behind. I put fifteen quid in an envelope and took it round to my neighbour's. The final piece of mail was from the Playhouse, containing two tickets for Romeo and Juliet. It was hard to believe, but Annabelle had never seen a stage performance of it. The repertory theatre in equatorial Africa prefers Shakespeare's more violent offerings. They were for Monday evening, and I'd wanted it to be a surprise. I placed them back in their envelope and stood it behind the clock.
There was a programme about the mating habits of termites on Channel 4, so I watched that until I remembered the list from the squash club.
She'd used half a roll of Sellotape on the envelope, but I eventually made it to the contents.
I have a lot of sympathy with the Chinese. I usually read the front page of a newspaper first, then the back page, then work through it from back to front, like they are supposed to do. I'm sure it's more natural. I'm equally convinced that we drive on the wrong side of the road in Britain, and the Continentals and most of the rest of the world have it right, but I rarely put that one into practice. The list was on the type of computer paper with sprocket holes down the edges, in a continuous concertina of folded pages, about a hundred, although I didn't count them. I started at the last name — Younghusband, William Defoe, "Carrickfergus', Cotswold Manor Garth, Heckley and slowly started to work my way upwards on the long journey towards Abbott, John, 143 Sheepscab Street.
I studied them methodically, unhurried. I'd read each name and dredge my memory for a spark of recognition. One or two sounded familiar, but the addresses were wrong. A couple were policemen I knew. Then I'd read the address and try to visualise where the member lived. I studied them all, but I was mainly interested in the women. If I didn't find anything we'd have to put them in the computer and let that search through them.
Two hours later my eyes were burning. I'd be reading names, flicking through them, and realise that nothing was registering. I'd go back a few places and try again. I thought of playing some music, but when I glanced through my collection I found nothing that wouldn't have been a distraction. Just reading the labels reminded me of Annabelle. After a great deal of dithering I marked the place I'd reached in the list and rang her number. The ansa phone came on. I put the receiver down, had a think about it and dialled again.
"It's me," I said. "Hello. Last night… I may have said things that I didn't mean… I'm not sure if I said them or just thought them..
anyway, I take them back. I was upset. The last five years have been the happiest of my life, and I'm grateful to you for that. You're a big girl, and you must do what is best for yourself." I wanted to say a lot more, but ansa phone tapes are not very long. I finished with: "I hope it works out for you. Don't write or anything… It's not necessary… But you know where I am, if you need me. Oh, and I meant what I said in the note. Every word. Goodbye, love."
I'd made another mug of tea and was arranging the sheets on my lap to recommence the search when the doorbell rang. I looked at the clock it said just after ten. I refolded the pages with my pen marking the appropriate place, about halfway through, and went to answer it.
Maggie was standing there, pale and grim, her coat buttoned up around her throat. "I'd like a word, Boss," she said.
"Come in," I invited, holding the door wide.
She walked through into the lounge and sat down, leaning over to see what the printout was about.
"Heckley Squash Club," I told her. "Membership list. Dr. Jordan was friendly with a girl there, called Sue or Sheila or something. I was looking through them for inspiration. So, what's happened? Is something wrong?"
"I'm… not sure," she replied.
"Are you taking your coat off?"
She shook her head.
"Cup of tea? The kettle's just boiled."
"No. I don't want a tea."
"Right. In that case, you'd better tell me why you're here. Sadly, I'll assume it's not a social visit."
The fingers of her right hand screwed up the belt of her coat and smoothed it out again. I've known Maggie a long time. We have a good working relationship but there's something above that between us. She's listened to my problems and chided or encouraged me, as required. I've leaned on her. They say that there's no such thing as a platonic friendship between a man and a woman, but I'm not sure I agree.
"No," she said. "It's not a social visit."
"So what sort of a visit is it?"
"What you just said, a moment ago…"
"What?"
"You said: "Sadly I'll assume it's not a social visit."
I shrugged. "So?"
"It's flirting. You do it all the time, Charlie. I don't think you know you're doing it."
I was puzzled. "I'm not flirting with you, Maggie," I told her. "I'm being pleasant, or at least I thought I was. If I've got it wrong… if you have a problem with it, I'll change. I'll be an arrogant bastard like most of the others. Is that what you'd prefer?"
"No."
"Well I'm not in the mood for a lecture on political correctness, Maggie, from you or anyone else. I treat everybody the same, and you know it. I respect our differences, and work round them, but as long as we're all pulling together I don't give a toss about them."
She unbuckled her belt and unfastened the top buttons of her coat. "I know," she sighed. "It's just that…"
"Just that what?"
"This morning. You went to see Janet Saunders."
So that was it. "Oh," I said.
"She rang me. You scared her, Charlie. Have you any idea what she went through?"
"I like to think I have."
"No, you haven't. I thought she was pulling round, learning to trust us, but now…"
"Maggie," I said. "It was ten o'clock in the morning. You weren't available. No one else was. I played it by the book, and for God's sake, her daughter was there."