14

My first reaction was outrage. Did this tramp take me for an idiot? Was it not reasonable to assume that I might be familiar with the existence of a tent, pitched as it has been, these three days past, at the end of my garden? His face betrays nothing at all, until he notices my disbelieving expression, and he then adopts a mode of unctuous concern.

Is anything the matter? You seem troubled, sir. Is there a problem with me camping so close to your house?

So this was his tack: he was going to play the innocent victim of my presumed intolerance. He was going to address me as sir, despite his not inconsiderable seniority of age.

Not at all, I say, in answer, summoning a smile. You are quite welcome to camp here.

I keep up my benevolent rictus for longer than strictly necessary, until the muscles in my cheeks begin to ache. Wandering over to the tent, I pretend to inspect it for the first time.

That’s a fine looking tent you have.

It does the job, he says. Keeps the rain off and that.

Had it for long?

As a matter of fact I have, he says. It was a gift from a dear friend, now sadly passed away.

Indeed? I say. A generous bequest. And, let me see, in this light it is hard to make out, but it is blue, is it not? A most striking blue, if I am not mistaken.

Aye, says the man. It is that. As blue as the midsummer sky.

Do you intend staying long? I ask.

What, tired of me already? He grins, in the fashion of a man accustomed to charming the susceptible.

Ha ha ha, not at all. As I said, the field belongs to my neighbour, Mister Morgan. If you wander over to the farmhouse of a morning, just over the next field there, and up the lane, you may have milk for breakfast, fresh from the cow.

I have made that up, of course. It was a long time since milk had ceased to be Morgan’s beverage of choice. And if he walked over to Morgan’s farm of a morning, and found the old bastard sober, it would be a miracle indeed if he escaped without the seat of his pants being ripped to shreds by one of Morgan’s dogs.

Is that so? Well, it’ll be like a friggin’ Famous Five adventure for me here then, so it will.

There is something sinister in the way he says that.

Quite so, I reply, and, realising this is the moment at which I am probably expected to take my leave, whereupon the stranger would go about the business of cooking his meal – I can see he has a primus stove set up, a tin of beans, a sliced loaf, a flagon of cider, an enamel plate and mug – I swiftly settle on a course of action. I will expose this vagrant’s ridiculous fantasy and have done with it, pointing out that the tent is not his, that he is not welcome, and that he must pack up at once, failing which I will call the police.

But just then I hear Alice’s voice behind me, bright as birdsong. I turn around. She has washed her hair, and is wearing a summer dress and a cashmere cardigan, rather than her usual jeans, T-shirt and man’s pullover. At her open neck she wears the scarab pendant. All signs of the mystery illness have vanished from her face. Her glossy auburn hair is brushed back, her cheeks are glowing and the black rings below her eyes have gone. She is wearing lipstick, a deep red that complements her hair colour. Her presence exudes a kind of demure sophistication, which has been entirely absent until now. It is as though she has been transformed into a woman of style and accomplishment.

Is everything all right? Alice asks.

I am caught between astonishment at the change that has come over her, and irritation that she has appeared at all, disrupting my plan of action, which I was intending to carry out without involving her in a dispute that might turn ugly.

I see we have a visitor, she continues. Aren’t you going to introduce us?

This completely throws me. I would have expected Alice to express alarm or anger at seeing this stranger make free with her tent, especially considering the emotional attachment I know it holds for her. But instead I struggle to say anything at all, mumble my apologies and confess that I do not know the stranger’s name.

O’Hallaran, he says, and if he had been wearing a hat he would have doffed it. Charming evening, is it not?

I stand there, piggy in the middle, not knowing which way to turn. Alice seems oblivious to any wrongdoing on the part of this O’Hallaran with regard to the tent. Perhaps, despite her transformation from boho chic to Vogue model, she is still a bit funny in the head following her fever.

But Alice, I object, your tent.

She looks at me curiously and, I think, rather too tenderly, as if it were I who had been unwell – or suffered from some mental ailment – and not she.

This chap – I continue, quite unnecessarily – says it’s his. He says he’s just arrived. With your tent. I am becoming quite animated.

Oh now, that’s impossible. He must have a blue tent also, she says, as though it were dim of me not to have reached this conclusion myself.

But it’s the same tent, I insist, my frustration mounting. It’s the same blue tent my Aunt Megan made for you, Alice, thesame fucking tent!

I am pointing at it, my index finger quivering, my voice hoarse.

The same tent? She looks it over, summarily. Perhaps it is. I doubt it somehow. And anyway, does it matter? I do think you are getting a little over-excited. Why don’t we go inside and have some of that soup you’ve been making? We could invite Mister O’Hallaran to share some with us, don’t you think?

Before I have a chance to reply, the vagabond does so for me, expressing his acceptance of the offer, with a simpering gratitude: most kind, much obliged … I will be along shortly.

He makes me want to spit.

But Alice has taken my arm, again as though I, not she, were the invalid, and is beginning to lead me across the garden, back to the house. I stop after a few paces. O’Hallaran is behind us, rummaging in the tent.

Look, I say, speaking fast but keeping my voice low, I need to clear something up, otherwise I’ll be worried that I’m going off my trolley. That blue tent, over there – that one – and again I point at it, as though there were a plurality of tents to choose amongst – is your tent. You arrived here with that tent on Monday night. You told me that my aunt made you the tent: she sewed it herself, with materials she had dyed blue, extremely blue. And now this O’Hallaran fellow emerges from the very same tent and claims it’s his. And you say nothing to contradict him. First you say the tent is not the same one – it’s impossible, you say – then you suggest that it might be the same but you cannot be sure. But neither way does it seem to matter much to you. What is going on?

Alice turns aside to make sure O’Hallaran is still out of earshot and – with her hand on my arm – says: there are a few things I don’t quite understand about the blue tent. This may be one of them. It sometimes … how should I put this … coughs up a few surprises. But on such occasions it’s best just to go with the flow, do you see?

I don’t see. I can’t see and I don’t want to see. But I start back to the house with her anyway.