‘I thought we pretty much nailed it tonight.’
I couldn’t help smiling at his rock ’n’ roll way of putting it. ‘I agree. We’re nearly there.’
Don’t be mean, Poppy, he’s just making conversation. And he was satisfyingly tall and slim but not skinny, I decided, as he strolled beside me in the light of a full moon.
‘D’you find it hard, that he’s here?’ he asked, glancing around. That endeared him to me immediately. Many people would have conveniently forgotten my husband was amongst us.
‘Not in the least. For one thing I don’t believe in ghosts, and for that reason I’ve always found graveyards rather comforting places.’ I thought of the one I visited quite regularly on the other side of Aylesbury. ‘Quite sleepy and peaceful and not remotely spooky, even at night. I’m glad he’s here and not in some urn on my mantelpiece. It means the children can come later if they want to. Have a chat.’
‘And even if there are ghosts, who’s to say they’d be more scary than the living? I can’t help thinking they’d be rather serene and calm, not having to live in the real world any more. Being well out of it.’
‘Exactly.’
We walked on.
‘I used to be fascinated by tombstones. Still am a bit,’ he admitted. ‘Imagining the people, their lives.’
‘Oh, me too,’ I said, surprised.
‘I mean, look at this.’ We stopped at a lichen-covered stone. ‘Imelda Ruskin, beloved wife of Arthur Ruskin.’
‘Yes, I know. When equally beloved wives, Rachael and Isabella,’ I pointed, ‘are buried over there.’
‘And Isabella was only twenty-two when she died,’ he reminded me, as we paused at her grave. It was one I knew well, had often wondered about. ‘Childbirth, d’you think?’ He nodded at the tiny grave beside her. ‘We know she was mother of Patrick.’
‘Or poison, to move Arthur on to wife number two perhaps?’
He laughed. Shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? And was Arthur a warty old dog exercising a spot of
‘Oh, a young blade,’ I said emphatically.
Arthur had always been a bit of an attractive cad in my eyes. Cutting a swathe through the damsels in the village, who all swooned for him, before popping his clogs elsewhere, somewhere more exotic. For Arthur wasn’t buried along with his wives in this churchyard. And nor would I be, I determined suddenly. Wouldn’t stay here for ever, to be slotted in beside Phil.
‘D’you ever make it up to London, Poppy?’ Luke said easily. ‘I thought we could have lunch.’
Well, I’d pretty much known he was going to ask me something like that. But London. No, I didn’t, as a rule.
‘Or a pub lunch here?’ He waved his hand at the Rose and Crown.
‘No, I make it to London,’ I said, thinking of Arthur and his travels. ‘I’d like that. Thanks.’
‘Good. I’ll book a table somewhere. West End? I imagine you’ll be shopping.’
‘Oh, er, yes. I imagine.’
‘What about next Tuesday?’
‘Perfect.’
We’d reached my gate now. Stood facing each other in the moonlight. ‘Goodnight, Poppy.’ He reached out and tucked a strand of hair back behind my ear, before lightly kissing my cheek.
Why should that small gesture disarm me?
I turned to open my gate, simultaneously swinging my bag over my shoulder, but it was a clumsy manoeuvre and the strap caught on the picket fence. As I unravelled myself I turned quickly to see if he’d noticed, and just caught his eye. By the time I’d smiled nonchalantly he was well on his way.
I walked up my path thoughtfully. Well, I was out of practice. Flirting. But I’d have to do better than that. One man leaves a message on my answering machine and I’m twirling round the kitchen, another touches my hair and I’m fighting my own garden fence? I shook my head. Any woman’s magazine worth its salt would point out that, recently widowed and bereft in so many other ways for years, I was vulnerable. And susceptible to any man’s attention. Any man, I thought soberly, being a great deal better than Phil.
I could barely get the tenner into Frankie’s hand before she’d sidled past me with the briefest of muffled thanks, and out into the night. I turned and watched her go. Towards the pub across the road. Into the pub? No. Surely not. It
