‘I went for an oak. An old one.’
‘Can’t go wrong with oak. And I’m forty in September, so old’s reasonable.’
‘And I was just thinking how rooted you seem to be. Even though you say you still work in London quite often, it’s like . . . I don’t know. Like you’re a part of the landscape.’
Eddie looked out of the window. Below us, clumped lavender leaned on the breeze.
‘I hadn’t thought about it like that,’ he said. ‘But you’re right. No matter how many times I go up to London to fit a kitchen, play football, see friends – and find myself thinking, I love this city – I come back to this valley. I can’t not. Do you get that same wrench when you leave LA?’
‘Well, no. Not entirely. But it’s where I’ve chosen to be.’
‘Right.’ There was a slight pinch of disappointment in his voice.
‘But it’s funny,’ I went on. ‘Listening to you talking about all these things you do, these hobbies you have, I realized how much I miss all of that. You can get anything and everything in LA, at any time of night, have it delivered, downloaded . . . I mean, they’re talking about deliveries by drone at the moment. There’re no limit to what’s possible. But for all that, I can’t remember the last time I made anything, other than my bed. I rarely exercise; I don’t play an instrument; I don’t go to evening classes.’
How flat I sound. How two-dimensional.
Eddie just looked thoughtful.
‘But who cares about hobbies if you’re spending all your time doing a job you love?’ He twirled a strand of my hair into his fingers.
‘Mmmm,’ I said. ‘I do love it, but it’s . . . challenging. Non-stop. Even when I come back to the UK for my holiday, I work.’
Eddie smiled.
‘Choice,’ I said, eventually. ‘You’re going to remind me I have a choice.’
He shrugged. ‘Look, not many people set up a children’s charity from scratch. But everyone needs downtime. Non-thinking time. It keeps us human.’
He was right, of course. I seldom delegated. I held my work close, cloaked myself in it: I always had; it was the only approach I knew. But for all that activity, all that industry, was I there ? Was I really there, in my life, the way Eddie seemed to be in his?
This is not the conversation to be having with a man you’ve barely known twenty-four hours , I told myself, but I seemed unable to stop. I’d never had this conversation with anyone, including myself. It was like I’d turned on a tap and the bloody thing had come off in my hands.
‘Maybe it’s not a city-living thing, or even a job thing,’ I said. ‘Maybe it’s just me. I do sometimes look at other people and wonder why I can’t find time to do all the things they seem to do outside of work.’ I poked at a cuticle. ‘Whereas you . . . Oh, ignore me. I’m rambling. It’s just that it all feels very natural, being here . . . Which is confusing, because normally when I come home, I can’t wait to leave.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I’ll tell you another time.’
‘Sure. And I’ll teach you the banjo. I’m terrible, so you’ll be in great company.’ He turned over his hand and put mine in it. ‘I don’t care what hobbies you do. I don’t care how hard you work. I could talk to you all day. That’s all I know.’
I stared at him with wonder.
‘You’re great,’ I said quietly. ‘Just so you know.’
We looked straight at each other, and Eddie leaned over again and kissed me. Long, slow, warm, like a memory brought back by music.
‘Do you want to hang around for a while?’ he asked, afterwards. ‘If you don’t have anything to do, that is? I’ll show you my workshop downstairs and you can make a mouse of your own. Or we can sit around kissing. Or maybe we can take potshots at Steve, a little bastard of a squirrel who lives on my lawn.’ He rested his hands on my legs. ‘I just . . . Sod it. I just don’t want you to go.’
‘OK,’ I said slowly. I smiled. ‘That sounds lovely. But your mother . . . ? I thought you were worried about her?’
‘I am,’ he said. ‘But she – well, she doesn’t have explosive breakdowns, more just gradual declines. My aunt’s come to stay because I’m off on holiday on Thursday. She’ll be keeping a close eye on her.’
‘You’re sure?’ I asked. ‘I don’t mind if you need to go and see her.’
‘Quite sure. She called earlier, said they’re off to the garden centre. She sounded well.’ Then: ‘Trust me,’ he added, when I looked doubtful. ‘If things were even approaching serious, I’d be there. I know what to look for. ’
I imagined Eddie watching his mother, week in, week out, like a fisherman watching the sky.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘Well then, I think you should start by telling me about Steve.’
He chuckled, flicked a crumb, or maybe an insect, out of my hair. ‘Steve terrorizes me and just about every species of wildlife that tries to live here. I don’t know what’s wrong with him; he seems to spend almost all of his time in the grass, spying on me, rather than up a tree where he belongs. The only time he gets off his backside is when I buy a bird feeder. No matter where I hang the bloody things, he manages to bust in and eat everything.’
I started laughing. ‘He sounds great.’
‘He is. I love him, but I also dislike him very intensely. I have a machine-gun-grade water pistol – we can have a go at him later if you like.’
I smiled. A whole day with this man and his squirrel, in this hidden corner of the Cotswolds that reminded me of all the best parts – and none of the worst – of my childhood. It was a treat.
I looked around me at the vestments of this man’s life. Books, maps, handmade stools. A glass bowl full of coins and keys, an old Rolleiflex camera. At the top of a bookshelf, a collection of garish football trophies.
I wandered over towards them. The Elms, Battersea Monday , said the closest one. Old Robsonians – Champions, Division 1. ‘Are these yours?’
Eddie came over. ‘They are.’ He picked up the recent one; ran a brown finger along the top. A little ruler of dust slid off the edge. ‘I play for a team in London. Which might sound a bit odd, given that I live here, but I’m up there quite a lot doing kitchens and . . . well, they’ve proved very difficult to leave. ’
‘Why?’
‘I joined years ago. When I thought I was going to give London a proper go. They’re . . .’ He chuckled. ‘They’re just a very funny group. When I moved back to Gloucestershire, I couldn’t quite bring myself to retire. Nobody can. We all love it too much.’
I smiled, looking again at the jumble of trophies. One went back more than twenty years. I liked that he’d held friendships so long.
Then: ‘No!’ I breathed. I plucked out a book from further down his shelves: the Collins Gem Birds, the exact same edition that I’d had as a child. I’d spent hours poring over this little tome. Sitting in the fork of the pear tree in our garden, hoping that if I stayed there long enough, the birds would come and roost with me.
‘I had this, too!’ I told Eddie. ‘I knew every single bird off by heart!’
‘Really?’ He came over. ‘I loved this book.’ He turned to a page near the middle and covered the name of the bird with his hand. ‘What’s this?’
The bird had a golden chest and a burglar’s mask across his eyes. ‘Oh God . . . No, hang on. Nuthatch! Eurasian nuthatch!’
He showed me another.
‘Stonechat!’
‘Oh my God,’ Eddie said. ‘You are my perfect woman.’
‘I had the wildflowers one, too. And the butterflies and moths. I was a precocious little naturalist.’
He put the book to one side. ‘Can I ask you something, Sarah?’
‘Of course.’ I loved hearing him say my name.
‘Why do you live in a city? If you feel like this about nature? ’
I paused. ‘I just can’t live in the country,’ I said eventually. Something about my face must have told him not to pry further, because, after watching me for a few seconds, he ambled off to get out the bread.