Healers Read Free

local girl. Someone he didn’t have to travel too far to see. So he contacted an agency in Otterbridge, sent a photograph, filled in a form. And tonight he was going to meet a woman.
    Lily had long since disappeared from sight and he turned back to the room. It was tidy enough. He liked to keep things tidy. If he’d known the word he’d have called it an obsession. During his National Service he’d been an officer’s batman. He knew about standards. But he didn’t seem to be able to keep it clean. A film of fine ash dust from the boiler covered the surfaces, and the lino beneath his feet was tacky with spilled food. He needed a wife to look after him, he thought, like every other man he knew. It was what he deserved.
    From an envelope which had been propped on the mantelpiece he took a photo. This was his date. She was his perfect match, the agency had said. She had chosen him from the rest of the men on their files. He read again her details though he knew them almost by heart. Jane Symons. Divorcee. Blond. Blue eyes. Forty-four years old. She was, she had written, manageress of a high-class shoe store. He wondered briefly if he would get shoes at a discount. He could do with a new pair of boots. The photo was small, the kind you can have taken in a machine, just a head shot. When he looked at it he couldn’t connect it with a real person, with the blond-haired, blue-eyed divorcee of his imagination.
    He had arranged to meet her in the lounge bar of the Ship Hotel in Otterbridge. It was a longish way for him to go and the drinks were a bit pricey but she hadn’t said on her form if she could drive. Besides, he thought the Ship would impress her. He would buy her a meal. If they got on perhaps she would come over to Mittingford next time. The real secret hope was that he would persuade her to come back with him tonight. That would show Lily Jackman.
    In the depths of the house his mother’s clock chimed the half hour. Half past six. For some reason it had kept better time since the old lady had died. Not like the one in the song. If he was going to meet Jane at eight he’d have to get a move on. Jane. He said the word out loud, practising.
    No time for a bath, he thought, without much regret. He hadn’t lit the boiler this morning and if he waited for the emersion to heat the water he’d be there all night. He’d put a kettle on and have a wash at the kitchen sink as he had when he was a lad.
    When he was ready he thought he was smart enough for any woman. He’d bought a shirt for the occasion from the small gent’s outfitters in Mittingford and there was the suit his mother had made him get for his uncle’s funeral. He cleaned his shoes, spitting on them as he’d been taught during National Service.
    Jane, he thought again, pushing thoughts of Lily Jackman to the back of his mind. Likes: the countryside, classical music, walking. She had left the dislikes space on the form blank. He hoped that meant she was an easy and accommodating person. A gay divorcee, he thought. Meaning laughter, sex.
    The grandfather clock struck seven. At least half an hour to get to Otterbridge and park, and then he’d need a couple of drinks for Dutch courage before she arrived. He locked the farmhouse door behind him. When Mother was alive he’d never bothered. She’d be more than a match for any burglar. But he didn’t trust Sean any further than he could throw him.
    He crossed the yard gingerly, trying to avoid getting his shoes too mucky. From the Land-Rover he could see over the wall into the meadow. Sean was sitting on the caravan steps with his head in his hands. He must have heard the Land-Rover starting up it was a diesel engine and it needed a service but he did not look up at the sound. Ernie wondered wistfully if they’d had a row.
    The fantasy returned of Lily in his kitchen, cooking his meals, and in his bed smoothing away the pains of the day with her long, brown fingers. But, he told himself sternly, there were