Chapter Forty-Eight
Forty-Eight
Whistler
I won’t be in touch. I can’t let Henny see me living here.
I go back to my sweaty sleeping bag, to toss and turn all night, waking up on the hour, and then on the half-hour. Eventually, 4 a.m. arrives and the sea gulls that nest on the roof begin to protest the dawn with increasingly angry squawks.
I let myself outside, hoping that the fresh air will soothe me. And I realise straight away that my mysterious neighbour is out here too, sitting on the balcony, because I can’t see anything above the wall.
They appear to be watching or listening to what sounds like… but surely can’t be… a dog groomer in action. Are there TV shows about grooming dogs? Filmed in – what seems like, at least – real time? I like dogs as much as the next person, but I’m not sure I’d want to watch one having a wash and blow-dry, and a toe-clipping.
The groomer seems to be tackling a very vocal husky, judging by the wailing and howling. The air is so still, and the volume so loud, that I can hear every word the narrator says. She talks her viewers through the entire grooming process, step by step, from the initial inspection of the dog to the multiple shampoos, conditioning treatments, high velocity blow-drying, de-matting and brushing. At the very end, she sprays the dog with canine cologne. When it’s clear the video is over, I look up to try to catch a glance at the watcher, but instead of standing up and looking over the balcony, they simply load up another video. I hear everything as a Belgian Shepherd is introduced. It’s showered, and the groomer tells the viewer that it’s ‘blowing a vast amount of undercoat’ and creating a ‘furnado’ – which I make a mental note to google, because that does sound like something I’d want to see.
Surely the watcher is going to go inside now? But no, another video starts, featuring two Malshi puppies, which I learn from the narrator are Maltese-Shih Tzu crosses.
I’m intrigued. Who watches dog-grooming videos at 4 a.m.?
Since I’m in the grip of insomnia, I go inside to make tea, and grab my notebook and pencils, in case I’m taken by the desire to sketch out some designs for jewellery, and when I come back out, the person is still there, still watching. How many dog-grooming videos can one person watch in a single sitting?
The dog groomer is now busy at work on a three-legged Pomeranian. Could the watcher have fallen asleep, and the videos be auto-playing? But I don’t hear any sounds of a person sleeping and I’ve definitely heard throat clearing, as if a person is awake – a person really gripped by grooming.
I expected there to be a few cranks on the island, but I hadn’t expected this particular brand of odd. Still, it takes all types to make a world. Maybe I should go over to meet my new neighbour, tell them I’ve just moved in. Ask to beg a cup of sugar. Get on friendly terms with whoever they are, in case of emergency if nothing else.
But I won’t do that. The mere idea of it fills me with anxiety.
When I’ve finished a few sketches – almost all of a peacock wearing a top hat, rather than anything jewellery related – and drained my mug of tea, I go back to bed.
It must be near seven o’clock when I finally fall into a deep sleep. I’m dreaming of being on holiday with Max in a Venice where everyone has the stringy limbs of Giacometti sculptures, when I’m pulled out of my nightmare by rhythmic banging on the door.
When I open it, I see a woman with a red-lipsticked smile on her face. It’s the same woman who seems to have been stalking me since I arrived on the island, and with whom I spoke outside the shop.
‘I’m Betty. These are for you,’ she says, handing me a fragrant assortment of garden roses, which are so perfect that my senses are momentarily overwhelmed.
‘Thank you,’ I say, wondering why she’s here, why she’s brought me flowers and if I need to call the police and get a restraining order. ‘I love garden roses.’
‘They’re not from my garden,’ she says, shaking her head, as if she perished the thought.
‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, although I have no idea why I’m apologising.
‘Heavens, no. They’re from my next-door neighbour’s garden. Can’t stand the woman but she grows the best roses on the island – I have to give her that.’
‘Oh, well, it was nice of her to let you pick them. Please thank her for me.’
‘I’m not thanking her – she doesn’t know anything about it. I stole them. Brenda’s always been a late riser. Never out of bed before 7 a.m. and doesn’t open her front door until the milkman’s been.’
I pause, not sure whether to laugh.
‘Won’t she be angry when she finds out you’ve stolen roses from her garden?’
‘She won’t. If she does notice her bushes look different, I’ll just blame it on the badgers.’
‘I don’t think badgers eat roses,’ I say, feeling that this conversation has gone very off-topic, though I still have no idea what the topic is supposed to be or why she’s here.
‘Yes, but she won’t know that; she’s from America – the badgers are awful over there.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, again. ‘Can I help you with something?’
‘No. I’m just here to officially welcome you to the island and check everything is okay.’
There’s a large ticking clock next to the door. The time is a shade past 7.30 a.m. I’ve had half an hour of sleep.
‘Thank you but everything’s fine.’
It’s not fine, obviously, but the thorns from the roses are pricking my hands and I’d quite like to get rid of this rose-stealing oddball and go back to bed before facing the full horror of the day.
I hear a door slam in the distance.
‘You just missed your neighbour over there,’ she says, pointing her thumb at the grand villa next door. ‘He just got back from his daily jog – quite the athlete, that one – I’m going to see him next.’
The whistler next door is a he? Interesting.
I don’t turn in time to see whoever was there, and now he’s disappeared into the house. I’m still hoping it’s the sexy surfer, but I know that the chances of that are remote. I don’t see how anyone that young and attractive could possibly afford such a gorgeous beach house, unless they’re from generational wealth, or famous, both of which seem wildly unlikely. It’s probably just a rich retiree who’s taken up triathlons.
‘Is he expecting you?’ I ask, glancing up at the clock.
‘Nope, I never announce my visits in advance. I like to keep people on their toes.’
So, presumably, there will be more ‘early bird’ visits like this during my stay here?
‘I hear you didn’t realise how many critters they have in there?’ she says, grinning mischievously.
‘I did not. There was a miscommunication.’
How does she know this? Word must travel fast on this island.
She whistles through her teeth. ‘Sounds like you’re in for a busy summer.’
‘It’s definitely going to be unique.’
‘You’re not afraid of snakes?’
I shake my head. ‘Well – I’m afraid of how much time I’m going to be spending looking after them. According to my notes, some of them won’t have a bowel movement unless they’re belly down on grass and enjoying some fresh air.’
She widens her eyes.
‘I didn’t realise snakes were so particular,’ she says. ‘You’re going to need a solid-gold routine.’
‘I’m starting to realise that.’
‘You aren’t going to be able to deviate, or you’ll end up stressed out of your head. Are you disappointed?’
Am I disappointed? This question hits me in the gut. Am I?
‘It’s just not what I had in mind for this period of my life.’
‘I understand that well enough, but real life is compromise with a few spicy moments thrown in to ease the tedium,’ she says and then adds, ‘Oh!’ as if she’s just remembered something. She begins rummaging in her large, leather handbag and brings out a massive can that she hands to me.
‘I heard about the bitey bastards.’
Flea spray. Lord knows how she knew, but I could kiss her.
‘Thank you,’ I smile, garden roses in one hand, enormous can of pesticide in the other. ‘How did you know?’
‘Ah, news travels fast on Loor. Spins around like a whirlwind,’ she says. ‘There’s a deep circularity to this island, you know?’ She’s looking me in the eye, as if this is important.
‘A circularity?’ I enquire, frowning slightly.
‘Not in the shape of the coastline; Loor is crescent-shaped, as you must have noticed, hence the ancient Cornish folks calling it Loor, which means moon in Cornish,’ she says.
This I did know. Not through noticing the geographical contours of the island, but because it’s mentioned in the first paragraph of every article about Loor that I’ve read on the internet.
‘But it’s circular in the way the people live their lives,’ she continues. ‘The way they tell their stories; the way information moves. I suppose it’s the same everywhere, really, but the effect is amplified here, the island being so small. Nothing says secret for long.’
I look at her face again, at her wrinkled skin, cornflower-blue eyeshadow and cherry-red lips. She gives off the vibe of having been through a lot in her life, but has somehow come out of the other side smiling.
‘I tell you what, girlie: why don’t you come for a little walk with me?’
‘Now?’
I look down at my body, which is very clearly wearing pyjamas.
‘It’s no bother,’ she says, misunderstanding me entirely. ‘If you’re going to live on this island, you might as well invest an hour of your time talking to someone who’s lived on Loor her whole life. There are things you need to know. “Known unknowns” but also “unknown unknowns” as that American bloke said.’
‘But I’m not even dressed. I’m still in my jammies.’
‘Nobody on Loor cares about that. Put a coat on if you’re chilly.’
‘Okay…’ I say, reluctantly grabbing my parka, not quite sure why I’ve agreed to this, but also not knowing how to get out of it.
‘First stop: next door. It’s time your neighbour gave you a proper welcome!’
She turns abruptly and walks up my steps towards the magnificent house next door, which stands a little further back from the sea and has a neatly mown lawn sloping towards the cliff.
I try to imagine the look on the owner’s face when he opens the door and sees Betty and me standing there.
I spot a Ring doorbell, which Betty presses, with no response. She knocks three times, but the door doesn’t open.
‘Strange,’ she says. ‘Oh well, we’ll come back later.’
‘No need on my account.’
She smiles at me enigmatically but makes no reply, and I have the distinct feeling that this woman is up to something.