Chapter 28
28
I can’t help smiling when Alasdair pulls up outside the mill late the same afternoon. Ben and Rebecca have taken Rollo and Louis to the cinema, so I’m on my own.
‘ La Porsche obligatoire ?’ I ask as he climbs out of his car and we hug. ‘Has someone been made partner?’
‘Well, ever since one of the most promising junior partners in the company’s history unexpectedly threw in the towel, they’ve admitted pretty much anyone, even me,’ he quips. ‘Although I have to say, I think I’ve left a few bits of the car behind on your track. Janice sends her love, by the way.’
‘How is she?’
‘Awesome, as ever. It’s very remote out here, isn’t it? I was half expecting the satnav to start warning me that “here be dragons”.’
‘Cut it out. We’re only five miles from Ashford.’
‘Ashford? I have heard speak of this place called Ashford many years ago, I believe. Is it the city of legend, where the pavements are made of gold and the fountains flow with milk and honey?’
‘Hardly,’ I say, laughing. ‘But there is a high-speed rail link to London. Thirty-seven minutes and you’re in St Pancras. How long would it take you to get to St Pancras from your flat?’
‘Longer than that, I admit, but who wants to go to St Pancras anyway? It’s a terrible place, and the only reason to be there is if you were catching the Eurostar to get as far away from it as possible. Are you going to show me around then?’
‘You weren’t joking. It’s an actual bloody mill,’ he says in wonder a little while later. ‘What on earth were you thinking?’
‘I told you. The original plan was to convert it and sell it on, but it turned out that it was salvageable, and you can’t get permission to rip these things out unless they’re beyond saving.’
‘I feel like I’ve stepped back into the nineteenth century. And it actually works, does it?’
‘It does.’ Although it’s really nice to see Alasdair, who looks as out of place as he evidently feels, in his expensive brogues, tan chinos and immaculately ironed light blue shirt, his critical appraisal is making me feel surprisingly protective about the mill.
‘Ernest and I ground some flour earlier this week,’ I tell him proudly.
‘Who’s Ernest?’
‘He’s the guy from the Historic Industrial Buildings Trust who’s helping us.’
‘You mean there are organisations for this kind of thing? I mean, I get that it might be a fantasy for someone who gets off on big cogs and whatever else is in here, but it’s pretty niche, isn’t it? You haven’t turned Amish and eschewed all mod cons, have you? Do you even have electricity this far out?’
‘Alasdair,’ I say firmly. ‘You’re in Kent, not Outer Mongolia.’
‘Hmm. And this…’ He waves his arm around vaguely, with a dubious expression on his face. ‘This is really what you want now?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’ I ask defensively. ‘I wanted a change of direction. This is a change of direction. I don’t get what you’re finding so difficult about it.’
‘Let me tell you a story,’ he says, his eyes solemn. ‘Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess called Thea. She was brave and clever, and all her courtiers admired her. There wasn’t a problem in the whole land that she didn’t know how to solve, and solving problems made her happy. In fact, she’d devoted her whole life to learning how to solve problems so that she could be the very best she could be. She lived in a lovely palace in Walthamstow and she worked hard doing what she loved. Then, one day, a fat ugly king called John died, and Thea decided, quite out of the blue, that she didn’t want to be a princess and solve problems any more. So she went to live in a land far, far away where it was muddy and cold and nothing worked properly. And she told herself she was happy, but she wasn’t, because there weren’t any problems to solve, and she missed it.’
‘Are you having a nice time?’ I interrupt crossly.
‘I was going to say how she tried to go back to her palace, but nobody believed she could be a princess because she looked like a farmer and so she ended up in a muddy field crying and her hat got eaten by a goat, but maybe I’ve made the point. I guess what I’m trying to illustrate is that there’s a difference between a change of direction and throwing everything you’ve ever worked for in the bin to become some kind of semi-recluse, grinding flour in your ancient watermill and complaining to your fellow villagers about “them city folk” while you sip your warm beer with dead rats floating in it.’
‘Alasdair,’ I say warningly.
‘OK, OK. Are you sure you don’t want to come back though? I mean, you’ve had a nice nine-month sabbatical, but aren’t you bored? You’ve got one of the keenest minds I’ve ever seen. I guess I just struggle to see how this can stimulate you. I’ve talked to a few of the other partners, and they’d be open to finding a way back for you. Not at partner level, obviously, but I’m sure we could swing senior associate.’
I cast my mind back to my previous life. Yes, it was mentally stimulating, but I had no friends outside work, my family barely knew me and I was basically a wage slave, imprisoned in my golden handcuffs. The thought makes me shiver.
‘I don’t want to come back,’ I tell him politely but firmly. ‘Thank you for the offer.’
As he gazes around, evidently trying to figure out what this ancient piece of machinery could possibly do to make me reject a lucrative job offer, another decision starts to crystallise in my mind, catching me unawares. It may be a clanking, obsolete museum piece, but I’ve grown very attached to the mill and I’m suddenly sure I don’t want to let it go. Even Ernest’s dull monologues about how you need to learn to listen to the mill to understand what it’s trying to tell you about its health, daily checks and so on have begun to penetrate, because I’ve started to care about it as if it were a living thing. I’d still prefer it to be George teaching me how to use it though. I briefly allow myself to indulge a fantasy where George and I are working in the mill together. It’s a warm, sunny day and he’s bringing in sacks of wheat, his muscles flexing under a tight T-shirt. He’s smiling at me, his gorgeous lashes blinking languidly as I run my fingers over his taut chest.
‘Penny for them?’ Alasdair’s voice brings me crashing back to reality.
‘Sorry?’
‘You were miles away just then. I just wondered where you’d gone.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I say, conscious of the flush of heat creeping up my neck.
‘Of course it is,’ he says, laughing. ‘That’s why you’re suddenly blushing like a lovestruck teenager. I’d flatter myself that it’s a reaction to me, but you’ve never reacted to me like that in all the time I’ve known you. Methinks I have a rival for your affections. Who is it?’
Bloody Alasdair. I’d forgotten how easily he can read me.
‘Nobody,’ I tell him. ‘And it’s been nine months, so don’t assume you can just slip back into my bed because that’s what we used to do.’
He just stares at me, saying nothing. I know what he’s trying to do; he’s letting the silence draw on until I blurt what’s on my mind just to fill it. Two can play at that game.
‘OK. I get it,’ he says nonchalantly just when the silence is getting unbearable. ‘Nothing to do with me. Sorry I asked. I hope he’s worthy of you though.’
‘It doesn’t matter, since he’s currently doing everything he can to avoid me,’ I reply before clapping a hand over my mouth in horror at what I’ve just revealed.
‘Aha!’ Alasdair exclaims triumphantly. ‘I knew it. What’s his name?’
I sigh. ‘George.’
‘George,’ he repeats, rolling the name round his mouth as if it were a fine wine he was tasting. ‘And what does George do?’
‘He works for the Historic Industrial Buildings Trust. He’s been advising me on the mill, which is how we met.’
I’m braced for another sarcastic remark, but Alasdair surprises me. ‘He matters to you,’ he says simply.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘The look on your face. Why’s he avoiding you?’
I study Alasdair for a moment before answering. It feels odd, almost disloyal, to talk to him about George, but then he is one of my longest-standing friends and, when I can get him to be serious, his insights are usually spot on. I think back to our last serious conversation over breakfast after John Curbishley died; he wasn’t completely right that time, but he certainly helped me to put my thoughts in order.
‘Not here,’ I tell him. ‘If I’m going to tell you this story, I think we should get a drink. There’s a pub in the village. Why don’t I lock up and we can walk up there?’
‘How far is it?’ he asks dubiously. ‘I’m not exactly dressed for rambling.’
‘It’s fine,’ I reassure him. ‘Ten minutes max, all on tarmac.’
‘OK. I’d offer to drive, but the fewer times I have to navigate your track the better, I reckon.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Alasdair says once I’ve recounted the story of George and me, culminating in his sudden disappearance from the barn and his letter. ‘Why’s he blaming himself when it was you who initiated things?’
‘I wish I knew,’ I tell him, taking a sip of my wine. It’s tempting to gulp it, but I’ve got to drive home in a bit so I need to be careful.
‘So what’s the plan?’
‘I don’t have one yet, but I need to straighten this out one way or another. Even if nothing comes of it, I can’t leave things as they are.’
‘I get that. Do you know where he lives?’
‘Nope, and HIBT won’t tell me because of GDPR. I already tried.’
‘Good for them. What about electoral registers?’
‘How many George Joneses do you think there are in the south-east of England?’
‘You don’t even have a town?’
‘Why would I? I know he grew up in South London, but he could be anywhere between here and there. He could even come from further away, I suppose.’
‘So all you know about his whereabouts, other than when he’s been on site with you, is this traction engine in Tenterden.’
‘Yup.’
‘OK, we’ll have to work with that then.’
‘I’m sorry? Where does “we” come into this?’
‘I’m going to help you,’ he says simply.
‘I don’t need your help!’ I exclaim.
‘I think you do. You’re making a right royal mess of this on your own, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Wow, tell it like it is, Alasdair,’ I say sarcastically, taking a mouthful of wine. ‘You know how I hate it when you sit on the fence.’
‘Stop being prickly. Let me get you another drink and then we’ll start to plot.’
I glance down at my glass and I’m surprised to find that it’s empty. On the one hand, I feel a bit resentful having Alasdair meddling in my business, but he does have a point that I’m not doing such a fabulous job of sorting the George problem out by myself so far. Plus, all that stuff he said earlier about me being good at solving problems is also true of him, so maybe having someone to bounce ideas off would be a good idea. The thing with Alasdair is that, although he’s a bit like a puppy in some respects and his rudeness about my current situation is annoying, I know I can trust him completely. And, if I’m honest, I’d forgotten how much I like him.
‘Go on then,’ I tell him. ‘Just a small one.’