‘Is that a promise?’
‘Yes,’ Marisa said firmly. ‘Yes, it is.’
Next door a terribly clunking duet was making its way to an end. There was a lengthy pause and then BANG! all four tiny paws finished simultaneously and on the right chord.
Marisa and Polly grinned at each other.
‘Did you hear that?’
‘YOU ARE NINJAS!’ came the voice from next door, loud enough to be heard in the kitchen. ‘YOU ARE MY TWIN NUNCHUK DUET NINJAS!’
‘How come he knows the word for ninjas and he doesn’t know the word for strawberry?’ grumbled Polly.
Chapter Twenty-three
Predictably, Avery had a lot of questions about nunchucks as Polly thanked Marisa for the coffee and headed on down the road. Mr Batbayar watched them go. Marisa, buoyed, stood out on the steps too.
Marisa gave him a half-smile, which he tentatively returned, then vanished into his house and returned her freshly washed lemon-yellow plate and fork.
‘I am sorry,’ he said, staring at the ground. ‘When I did yell-ink at you.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said. And then, surprised at her own daring. ‘How much is a piano lesson?’
‘You want piano lesson?’
He looked totally bemused. Obviously he had her down as a total music hater in every conceivable way.
‘Oh God, not for me.’
He half-smiled. ‘Noooo, not for you.’
‘. . . if I was to pay for the children? But, not with money.’
‘Actually, I would say money is good.’
In fact, Marisa had a plan. She had been a little taken aback by Polly pointing out – correctly – how she didn’t contribute to the community, as well as the curly-haired woman talking about neighbourliness. And she wasn’t exactly spending her own wages.
She could see how proud Polly was. Of course she wouldn’t take charity.
On the other hand.
‘If I said, you can play at night that’s fine and also maybe if I cooked for you, when I was cooking . . . could you maybe keep teaching the twins?’
This all came out in a rush and he frowned as his serious careful face worked through what she meant.
‘Ah,’ he said sadly. ‘You mean, to hear me play that would be a great sacrifice for you but you would do it to help another person.’
‘No!’ said Marisa. ‘Well. Is that what I said?’
He nodded sadly, his big bear face looking glum.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Marisa.
He put his hands out in a ‘well, what can you do?’ gesture and turned back around and went back in without giving a clue as to whether that was a yes or a no. She sighed, and went and turned Skype on for Nonna.
‘What’s the matter? You look even sadder than normal. It’s really bad for the face, looking sad all the time. What happened?”
Marisa sighed
‘I tried to do something good. I don’t think it worked very well.’
Her nonna listened to the whole story, sniffing occasionally.
‘Well,’ she said finally. ‘I think this is easily solved.’
‘I’m glad to hear it,’ said Marisa, surprised.
‘Do you have any lambs’ liver in the freezer?’
Marisa gave her nonna as sharp a look as she could manage through the laptop camera eye.
‘No!’
‘Oh. Okay. Not quite so simple. Let me think. What do you have?’
‘Is this about food?’
‘Everything is about food,’ said Nonna.
In fact, inspired, Marisa had done a slightly more adventurous online shop. Okay. There were a few microwave meals in there. But there was a lot of fresh stuff too. Possibly more than she needed. Possibly.
‘Um, chicken . . . potatoes . . .’
‘Okay! Stop right now. That will do. You have mushrooms?’
Her grandmother immediately instructed her to slice some of the truffle incredibly thinly and put it on a layer of butter under the skin of the chicken leg, then whisk up a mushroom sauce before making truffle mash, which included more butter than Marisa privately thought any human should eat in a year or two, but on the other hand her grandmother was eighty-four and still swam in the sea with her friends every weekend so who was she to judge?
‘You will need Madeira for the mushrooms. Or brandy.’
‘Why would I have either of those things?’ said Marisa.
‘You’re an adult,’ retorted Nonna.
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘Well, you’ll have to find some.’
Chapter Twenty-four
It was a glorious evening, and Marisa took the potatoes – which she was mashing with plenty of salt and cream – to the little balcony terrace.
To her right, the sun was setting in a light medley of gold and pink. It was wonderful. She glanced round at the houses meandering up and over the hill, down the other side to the northern edge of Mount Polbearne, and the thin land bridge that came and went and joined her little end-of-the-world yellow house to the mainland and the rush and dash and fuss of the rest of the world. She glanced back into the lemon house. She was happier where she was.
The chicken roasting started to smell heavenly; so good it felt unfair, like leaving a trap for a hungry dog. Sure enough, eventually, the shaggy head appeared on the balcony.
‘I am thinkink we should be better . . .’
He had looked up the word but it had gone from him.
“. . . nybor?”
‘Were you,’ said Marisa, continuing to mash. His eye strayed irresistibly to the potatoes. There was clearly lots. ‘You don’t have any cooking sherry, do you?’
His head tilted.
‘Sherry? It’s . . . Spanish wine.’
He vanished and came back with a Rioja, proffering it willingly.
‘Um, no. Like. Sweet wine. Is it? Yes.’
‘Oh!’
He vanished again and returned with port.
‘What . . . do you have an entire bar in there?’
‘Yes.’ Alexei nodded gravely.
‘What? How? Why?’
‘My friends . . .’
He looked slightly caught out then, as if he hadn’t meant to mention them.
‘When I move . . . they said, you must take alcohol, you move to England. They buy me presents. Was funny.’
He said the last words quietly, as if it didn’t seem funny any more.
‘But you’re Russian,’ said Marisa. He looked as if he didn’t know what she was talking about.
‘So?’ he said.
‘Why did you . . . ?’
She was about to ask why he had moved there but he had disappeared once more.
‘What you want?’ came from inside his blue house.
Okay,’ said Marisa. ‘Well. If you really have everything. S-H-E-R-R-Y.’
He disappeared then eventually came back with a very expensive-looking bottle of Amontillado.
Marisa couldn’t help cracking a smile.
‘No way! Well.’
‘You want?’
‘It’s too good for cooking.’
‘You drink it?’
‘No. Do you?’
‘No! Was for new English . . . friends.’
They both looked awkward then and Marisa didn’t say anything.