least let me have a look.’
Dulcie relayed the stalling-at-the-traffic-lights story and Rufus had another go at starting the engine, without luck. ‘When did you last check the oil?’
Dulcie looked at him. Having first removed his apron, he had lifted the bonnet and was now peering underneath. As he wiped his oily hands on a piece of kitchen roll, Rufus returned her gaze.
Slowly he said, ‘Okay, put it another way. Do you check your oil?’
It was all right for him, thought Dulcie. He was wearing a weird hand-knitted grey jersey and brown corduroy trousers. There was grey in his hair. He had a beard, for heaven’s sake...
Without beating about the bush, he was a man.
She glanced down at her sunflower-yellow shirt and whiteskirt. Her legs were brown, her sandals gold and her toenails Pomegranate Pink.
‘Do I look like the kind of person who checks the oil?’ The dipstick was duly hauled out, wiped on kitchen roll and re-dipped.
‘There is no oil in this engine,’ Rufus announced gravely.
For the first time, Dulcie suppressed a smile. The way he said it sounded like No Wheels On My Wagon. She looked suitably ashamed.
‘Oh.’
‘I mean really no oil.’ Rufus shook his head. ‘It’s a miracle the engine hasn’t blown up.’
‘Ah.’
He tut-tutted, then straightened up and smiled.
‘My ex-wife was the same.’
Bored with lessons in car maintenance, Dulcie found herself wondering what his ex-wife looked like. Wholesome, presumably. Like Rufus, only without the beard. She tried to imagine how he would look if he shaved it off.
With a start, Dulcie realised he was still talking about oil.
.. a five-litre can of Castrol GTX Protection Plus. They sell it in the garage down by the river. Bit of a hike back up the hill, but that can’t be helped.’
That was the trouble with these do-it-yourself types: they always wanted you to do it yourself too. Dulcie leaned wearily against the wall.
‘Can’t I just phone the garage, get them to do all that?’
Rufus was looking at her thin arms. In return, Dulcie wondered how old he was – around thirty-five at a guess, though with beards it was always hard to tell. Then she wondered if the grey sweater was older or younger than Rufus.
‘Look, you’ll never carry a five-litre can all that way. I’ll go.’
‘What about the cafe?’ said Dulcie, startled.
Sounding amazingly unconcerned, Rufus said, ‘You’ll just have to take over until I get back.’
Chapter 37
It was like visiting your granny in hospital then suddenly being hauled into the operating theatre and told to take over while the surgeon went off for his lunch break.
Well, Dulcie conceded, maybe not quite like that, but along those lines. Luckily the cafe wasn’t crowded so she didn’t have to get into a flap. All the prices were chalked up on the blackboard behind the counter, the till was ancient and straightforward to use, and any questions Dulcie had were answered by Maris, who worked in the kitchen.
‘How long have you and Rufus been together?’ asked Dulcie during a quiet five minutes. She leaned against the freezer and watched Maris, who was fluffy-haired and energetic, chop a mound of onions.
Maris looked amused.
‘We aren’t together. Rufus’s wife left him six months ago.’ She wiped her eyes, streaming from the onion fumes. ‘They used to run this place together, and I worked here part-time. Now it’s just the two of us keeping the place going.’ She finished chopping, and deftly slid the onions into a pan of sizzling oil, adding fondly, ‘Bless him, he works so hard. Trying to get over his wife, that’s what it is. He still misses her like mad.’
‘Why did she leave?’
Dulcie wondered if it had been the beard.
‘Louise? Ran off with the bank manager over the road. You wouldn’t have thought it, to look at her.’ Maris, clearly a gloriously indiscreet gossip, glanced at Dulcie for encouragement.
Avid for details, Dulcie said, ‘What, was she the prim and proper type? Or a sour-faced old prune?’
‘Hairy legs.’ Maris lowered her voice. ‘She never shaved them. Well, you’d have needed a lawn mower.’
‘Didn’t put the bank manager off,’ remarked Dulcie. ‘Or Rufus.’
‘Poor Rufus. He adored her.’ Energetically Maris stirred the sizzling onions, then reached for a Sabatier and a bulb of garlic. ‘He’s a lovely chap.’
‘Seems nice.’ Dulcie nodded. If you liked that kind of thing. ‘Do anything for anyone, Rufus would. Got a heart of gold.’
‘Does he drink?’ said Dulcie.
