Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart Read Free Page A

pavement.
    Through the open door there comes the welcome of a singsong,
    â€œYes, we have no bananas,
    We have no bananas today,”
    which suggests that dealings in contraband must be at a remarkably low ebb, since a bent old seaman with a beard and runny nose tells me while we wait for Matt and Walt to do battle at the bar—well, he tells Trixie too but she plainly isn’t listening—that the Lord Nelson has a dormer window on its seaward side, from which signals could be flashed to smugglers coming in below the cliff, and that there’s many a whispered tale of blocked-up passages which once led from the cliff into the cellars. Matt gives the man one of the two glass tankards he’s brought, and heroically returns to fetch himself another. By the time he comes back, Walt and Trixie have been able to muscle their way onto a crowded bench—she’s sitting on his lap—and the seaman has swallowed his drink and has moved off in search of some other sucker (Matt’s phrase). “The artful old lush—well, good luck to him,” he says.
    We then decide to join the group around the piano; yet just as we get there it disbands. So we eventually manage to edge into a corner, holding our glasses up high, apologizing as we go and meeting with cheerful reassurance. We could of course have taken our drinks outside and sat on a parapet overlooking the sea but, despite the cardigan I’m now wearing, the night feels chilly. Besides—it’s exciting to be part of a good-natured crowd that’s soaked up the warmth of the day, even if at times it’s a little difficult to hear what each of us is saying. He asks where Trixie and I are putting up in Southwold and I tell him about Mrs Herbert’s guesthouse.
    â€œIt’s simple but seems luxurious compared to our farm-worker’s cottage—where the plumbing is so primitive it’s sometimes hard to get rid of the day’s caking of mud.”
    â€œNo wonder you need to escape.”
    â€œBut it’s a good life, being a land girl.”
    â€œWill you be in Southwold next Saturday?”
    His question takes me by surprise. “Well, usually we only get away once every—”
    â€œI wish you would,” he says. “We could meet earlier in the day and go for a picnic—fit in a swim. I think I could probably wangle us a jeep.”
    â€œIt sounds fun. I—”
    â€œAnd I’ll take care of the picnic. I mean it. No arguments.” He looks round briefly. “I guess Walt’s probably making similar plans with Trixie…aiming to get off on their own.” I glance round too; we both smile. “But Rosalind?” Suddenly he seems embarrassed.
    â€œMm?”
    â€œI don’t quite know how to put this, without sounding bigheaded. But, you see, back home… Well, back home I’m engaged to be married.”
    A slight dip of disappointment—silly, I suppose, on the strength of merely a six-hour acquaintance. Come to that…not such a slight dip, either.
    â€œCongratulations, Matt.”
    â€œYou’ll still come out next Saturday? Maybe even Sunday as well?”
    â€œI’d like to.”
    â€œI damn well wish that I was free tomorrow. You’re just about the nicest person I’ve met in England. And that’s not to say England isn’t very full of nice people.”
    â€œThanks. And you must tell me about your family and your fiancée and we’ll keep our fingers crossed that the weather next weekend is at least half as good as today’s.”
    I laugh.
    â€œEspecially if you’re serious about that swim.”

3
    The detective takes the snapshot from my hand. “I think it’s time we shut up shop,” he says.
    â€œI can’t help wondering who she is.”
    â€œNaturally you can’t.”
    His apartment is on Finchley Road, over a bakery called Grodzinski’s. “I like this area,” he