“Man and a woman. Few weeks ago.”
Mrs Gordimer's head inserted itself between us, staring at her husband in outrage. “There were people here and I didn't see them?”
“Day you left for your sister's. I was working on the boat-shed door, after dinner one night. Nearly dark. They came around the house, bold as brass. I sent them off.”
“Can you tell me about them? Did you get their names?”
“Nah. Just told 'em to leave.”
“What did they look like?”
“Didn't see him close, he stood off down the lawn with his back to me, like he was too good to do any talking. Had grey hair. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe forty, taller'n him. Old-fashioned hair—up on her head, you know?”
Like mine, until three months ago. “What colour was it?”
“Brown, I think. She had a hat,” he added, which I assumed was meant to explain his lack of certainty as to colour.
“And you think you saw her somewhere before?”
“Dunno. Maybe just her picture.”
“Anything else you noticed about them? Beard, eye colour, jewellery, that sort of thing?”
Gordimer took off his hat and scratched his balding pate in thought. “He'd a moustache, saw it when he turned just a little to say something over his shoulder. Never liked moustaches, myself,” he added, a surprising digression for a man so chary of words and opinion. “Wore a sparkly ring, diamond, like, on his pinkie. 'Bout my height. Wanted to be taller—wore those shoes with the soles. Foolishness.” My, my: Mr Gordimer really hadn't cared for his visitors. “The woman. About as tall as you, not quite so skinny. Brown eyes. Pretty voice. Southerner. Not him.”
I reared back. “A Southerner? You're certain?”
He shrugged. “That drawl. Magnolias and juleps. Iron underneath.”
I continued to gape at him, not only flabbergasted by the news, but by the simple fact of my neighbour speaking so many words. I scarcely noticed the addition of this third perceptive judgement until later.
However, the effort appeared to have drained him. I pressed for more detail, but he had given me all he had, or all he could manage to convey, because his words were replaced by shrugs and hand gestures, and a look of panic crept into his eyes. In the end, I took pity, and thanked him. He looked vastly relieved.
There was one other question, however, and for that I looked to his wife. “What day would this have been?”
The words that had been stemmed by her husband's unnatural loquacity burst forth as Mrs Gordimer provided me with the saga of her sister's debilitating illness in an unspecified part of the anatomy, with more details than I thought entirely necessary, but the essential detail of the day managed to creep in as well: March the thirtieth.
I thanked her, thanked him, and continued my backward retreat until I was safely out of the garden gate and the crunch of drive-way gravel was under my boots.
We drove away from the lake-house on Wednesday a different trio from that which had arrived on Sunday. Then, my apprehension had been so great, my two companions could only tread quietly around me; now, I was so eager, even anxious, to be back in the city I paid almost no attention to my surroundings; Flo sat in the front seat with her shoulders set in an attitude of pure disgruntlement, with Donny beside her at the wheel, silent and puzzled.
As we started up the drive, I swung around for a last look at the Lodge. I did not know if I would see it again, but I was grateful for the days here. Grateful, too, that my companions had proved so easy to get along with, other than Flo's occasional spasms of overly solicitous behaviour, pressing on me toast and sleeping draughts. When the last corner of mossy shingles was swallowed by the trees, I faced front again.
We passed through the bucolic little village and wound through the hills towards the sea. The original plan had been that our return would cross the hills to the faster road that ran up the eastern side of the Peninsula, but before we could turn in that direction, I leant forward and put my hand on Donny's shoulder. He tipped his head to listen.
“I know it's rather out of the way, but I'd very much like to stop at that garage we passed on Sunday.”
“Which one is that?”
“In the little town, Serra Beach.”
“Oh, right,” he said dubiously. “I'd thought to go back by way of Redwood City—along the Bay. Serra Beach would mean the coastal road again.”
“Would you mind awfully?” I asked, piling on the helpless female tones, then put in the knife. “It's the very last place we spoke, my parents and I, before the accident.”
He exchanged a quick glance with Flo in the seat beside him, then faced forward again. “No problem,” he said over his shoulder. “If that's what you want.”
“Very good of you,” I said, and settled back in my seat, too occupied with my thoughts to see much of the passing scenery.
The accident site appeared up ahead of us, looming above the sandy beach where we had talked with the insurance investigator. The beach was sunny today, but deserted, with neither bread van nor closed touring car parked on the side of the road. When we got to the top of the hill, I scarcely glanced at the place where it had happened; my mind was taken up with the coming garage.
Donny pulled up to the petrol pump and all three of us got out of the motor. The boy who came out to help us was too young to remember much about the events of 1914, far too young to have built up the garage on his own. I asked him if the owner was there.
The boy glanced at me curiously, but could see no reason to fend me off. “My uncle's around the back, working on a transmission.”
The mechanic looked as if he was doing battle with the transmission, or being eaten by it. The dismantled vehicle lay strewn all about, the body lifted to one side, the engine hanging from a gargantuan tripod, and the underpinnings—drive-shaft crossed by two axles—lay atop a pair of outstretched legs. I stopped short, wondering if I should summon help to lift the weighty object off a dead man, but then the legs convulsed and, marginally more reassuringly, a string of dire imprecations emerged from the wreckage. Someone that eloquent, I thought, could not be
“Er, I beg your pardon?” I said loudly.
The imprecations paused, the convulsing legs began to push against the paving stones, and one arm wrapped around the drive-shaft, pulling its owner into open air.
A grease-blackened face glared at me. “Yeah?”
“I'm very sorry to interrupt you, but I'm looking for the gentleman who owned this establishment back in 1914.”
More of the torso emerged, and a rag was waved across the visage, making no discernible difference, although beneath the film he appeared not much older than I. “That would've been my brother, Dick,” he said. “I helped out, and took it over after he was killed back in '20.”
“Would you have been here in September 1914?”
He cocked his head and fixed me with a long, thoughtful gaze before deciding to get to his feet. The rest of him was no less greasy, and I had to stop myself from retreating fastidiously when he climbed over his project and came over to stand in front of me. He tugged a cap from the back pocket of his overalls and pulled it on. Thus equipped for a formal interview, he squinted at me. “Why do you want to know about September 1914?”
It was my turn to look thoughtfully at him. Was it the date itself, or my asking, that had caught his attention? When in doubt, fall back on the truth, or a close facsimile.
“I was in a motor accident then, just down the road from this place. I wondered if anyone might remember any details about the day.”
The black, shiny surface before me shifted as his expression changed. “You were in that car?”
“You're the girl.”
