‘In the loveliest corner of the world?’ suggested Polly, gingerly reaching out. ‘That . . . is it for me?’
He shook his head.
‘Marisa Rossi,’ he read.
‘Oh,’ said Polly. ‘We haven’t seen her.’
She thought about that crossly. Given that she’d given her keys and everything, a courtesy visit would have been nice, seeing as they were, you know, the community’s bakery. Maybe she was one of those people who thought all carbs were evil. Although she hadn’t looked like one of those people.
‘She lives all the way up the top of the town,’ said Janka heavily. ‘On an unpaved road.’
He looked at the large box.
‘It’s actually against Health and Safety for me to deliver to unfinished roads,’ he said.
‘Is it?’ said Polly sceptically. She knew Janka knew that she saw almost everyone in the village from time to time and if he could use her as a kind of free intermediary drop-off point, as she was right on Beach Street, he would. She was fighting this at all costs and made no move to touch the large parcel.
As the stand-off continued, fortunately the bell rang. It was Mr Batbayar, the very large piano teacher, who came in most days and was, Polly remembered, the girl’s next-door neighbour.
‘What you bakink today?’ he said, recoiling instantly at the smell.
‘Janka, you’re poisoning my shop,’ said Polly. ‘You’re going to have to take that out.’
‘I can get coffee anywhere, you know,’ said Janka threateningly.
‘No, you can’t!’
Mr Batbayar examined the box.
‘That is my street.’
‘It’s your neighbour,’ said Janka quickly. ‘Can you take it to her?’
‘Of course.’
‘You don’t have to!’ said Polly, but Janka was already out the door. ‘Argh. That confounded postie!’
The piano teacher blinked in surprise.
‘This is bad?’
‘Oh . . . no,’ said Polly. ‘I’m just not sure I can take on being local postmistress as well as . . . Anyway. Never mind. How are the twins getting on?’
‘They are very five,’ said the piano teacher, making it clear that that was about as much information as he was willing to give right then. ‘Six red things please.’
‘Mr Batbayar . . .’
‘Alexei, please.’
‘Oh, okay,’ said Polly. ‘I’m Polly. Anyway, one thing is, they’re called strawberry tarts.’
Alexei made a game attempt at shaping his mouth into four syllables that meant literally nothing to him, and smiled cheerfully in the way that often meant people stopped fussing him about his English.
‘And secondly, are you eating all of these yourself?’
Alexei gave her a look.
‘Um. No?’
‘Really no, or is that what you think is the right answer no?’
‘The other one,’ said Alexei. ‘You try not to sell too many thinks?’
‘No, but you could mix it up a bit. Look, I have some beautiful asparagus tarts.’
‘I loff . . .’ He pointed at the little spears. ‘Yes! Six please!’
Polly put the strawberry tarts down. He gave her a bear-like look and she picked them up again, and he paid quickly, then shouldered the large heavy box like it was nothing and dinged out of the shop whereupon Polly spent a faintly irritating day explaining what the smell was.
Later that day it was still chilly, but Marisa didn’t really notice the weather. Had she been able to step outside she would have seen celandine blooming through the rocks that made up the end of the unfinished road; she would have seen swifts returning to lay their eggs in hedgerows and singing a cheerful song, the white flashes of cow parsley and the daffodils that thickened every hedgerow, as well as the woods full of bluebells back on the mainland.
But she didn’t notice any of that. She left open the balcony door open for fresh air, but apart from that the seasons were passing her by.
There was a knock at the door. She glanced up from the laptop – Nonna was out, and she was tidying up the archiving files.
It was becoming increasingly clear to her that, useful as she was, there was less and less homeworking she could actually do. One day they weren’t going to need her any more
The knock came again, and with it her instant physiological response: her mouth went dry, her hands started to tremble.
‘HELLO!’ came a loud voice.
Marisa’s heart sank. It was him. She knew it was him from next door. Of course it was. She wanted to pretend she wasn’t there, that nobody was in, but that was ridiculous.
‘HELLO! LADY NEXT DOOR!’
He sounded gruff and impatient.
Okay, she wasn’t going to be able to get away from this. Timidly she opened the door.
‘I HAFF PARCEL FOR YOU!’
In the morning light he looked larger than ever, his beetle brows jammed together, the parcel, square and wrapped in brown paper, looking small in his hands, even though it wasn’t.
‘Um . . .’
She started to stutter and he looked at her as if she was completely beneath his worth attentions.
‘I put here,’ he said. Then he did something odd. He picked it up and sniffed it. Marisa blinked at the oddness of his gesture. Who was this guy?
There was a parcel, square and wrapped in brown paper with her grandmother’s familiar handwriting, sitting on the top step. They both looked at it for a moment, the man’s beard obscuring half his face.
‘Um, thank you,’ she managed. He stood there watching for an instant, as if he were waiting for her to open the parcel, then nodded shortly and made to go back around.
‘MR BATBAYAR!’
A tiny little girl was rushing up the unfinished road, splashing in little puddles. She had vibrantly curly hair which shot out behind her and seemed bigger than her head.
‘MR BATBAYAR! I have learned ALMOST almost most of it VERY LOUD AND FAST.’
His face changed completely, and he beamed at the little girl.
‘Vivienne!’ he said, as if there was nobody he was more pleased to see. ‘Well. Now. What we say? Fast is last.’
‘Fast is FUN.’
He grinned wider.
‘It is fun. Hello, Mrs Cordwain.’
The similarly frizzy-haired woman smiled happily and followed the little girl up the steps.
‘You stay?’
‘It’s been giving me a headache all week,’ she said easily. ‘Another few dozen repetitions can’t make any difference now.’
‘I hear your mother say you do lots of practice,’ said Mr Batbayar to the little girl, who smiled with delight and nodded.
‘Also . . .’ went on the woman, smiling hopefully.
‘You want coffee?’ said Mr Batbayar, sounding much jollier than Marisa had heard so far.
‘I would love one. You make very good coffee.’
‘No. England coffee is very bad coffee. That is not a hard thing.’
Presently the small party disappeared into the house and moments later a very loud and fast and not entirely accurate version of the ‘Skye Boat Song’ came banging out from the little blue house next door.
Marisa stood there with the parcel she had been so delighted to receive only moments before, feeling suddenly very sad. How easy they had found the conversation, how relaxed the curly-haired woman had been, going out and about and into someone’s house. And they had both looked right through her.