78

‘Well, hello!’ Daisy’s father strode across the driveway. ‘Welcome to Beens Acres!’ He shook Con by the hand and took his small case from him. ‘Is this all you’ve got?’

Con nodded. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I travel light.’

He looked up at the house. It wasn’t as big as it had been in his head, probably about the same size as Toby’s house, except built from a different colour brick and surrounded on all four sides by fields.

‘This is really good of you,’ he said to Daisy’s dad as they climbed the pocked sandstone steps to the front door.

‘Oh, it’s nothing at all,’ he said. ‘We’re used to it. All the girls have their boys to stay at some point. We call this the Beens Hostelry for Lovesick Boys.’

Con smiled. ‘It’s only temporary,’ he said, ‘just until I get accommodation sorted out.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Spend as long as you like. As long as you like.’

There was a very big dog in the hallway. Its tail beat loudly against the tiled floor and its ears flattened against its head with repressed excitement. ‘This is Rory,’ said Mr Beens. ‘There’s a small one somewhere, too, called, variously, depending upon whom you ask, Smarties, Arthur or Bongo. You’ll meet him soon, I’m sure.’

The hallway was large and cluttered, full of books and lamps and piles of outdoor clothing. Through a door to the left, Con could see a big dusty sitting room, furnished with pastel-hued antiques, sage walls and yet more books.

Daisy appeared at the doorway. She was wearing a huge anorak and furry boots. She beamed and ran towards him. ‘You’re here,’ she said, wrapping her arms round him.

‘I am,’ he said.

‘I didn’t hear your cab.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I walked from the station.’

‘Oh, no! Why didn’t you phone? We could have picked you up.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘honestly. It was fine. I’ve never been to the country before. I wanted to see it.’

‘Never been to the country?’ said Mr Beens, incredulously.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Never. Went somewhere on a school trip once, but all I can remember is the coach journey.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Beens, ‘a double welcome to you, then, from us, and from the country.’

Daisy looped her arms round Con and kissed him on the cheek. ‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she said. ‘This is so great.’

He kissed her on the lips and smiled.

‘Come on. Let me show you round.’

Con followed her through the house and the dog followed them, stopping every time they stopped and sitting down patiently, as if it was the first time he’d seen the house, too. The house was a weird mix of tasteful antiques and random garish pieces of furniture from the 1960s and 1970s. A small semi-glazed room at the back of the house was wallpapered with an iridescent lime-green bamboo print and the walls of the downstairs toilet were painted orange and covered in badly framed cartoons torn from newspapers. It was a house that didn’t take itself seriously, that didn’t care too much what anyone thought of it, a house that was comfortable in its own skin and Con could immediately sense that he would be fine here.

A small fat pony grazed thoughtfully in the back garden and a large hairy cat dozed on the kitchen counter in a circle of sunlight. The small dog that Daisy’s dad had mentioned was found eating toilet paper in the bathroom.

‘Oh, God, Bongo, not again.’ Daisy pulled the roll from his mouth and gathered up the pink shreds that lay scattered across the tiled floor. ‘You stupid, stupid dog.’

The big dog looked disdainfully at the small dog before getting to his feet to continue the tour of the house.

‘And this,’ said Daisy, opening a door on the attic floor, ‘is your room.’

It was a large room, with a low sloping ceiling and a rather cheap-looking Velux window in the roof. A tiny dormer window looked out over the driveway and the main road. The bed was a single, clothed in a bright duvet and a fat pillow. There was a small pine wardrobe at the other end of the room and a Victorian washbasin and jug on a wrought-metal stand, with a lilac hand towel. ‘Is this OK?’ said Daisy.

Con looked round. It wasn’t the most characterful room in the house, but it was warm, it was dry and it had a bed in it, and as long as Con lived he would always consider that to be the most that any man could ask for.

‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘Really perfect.’

‘Good.’ She smiled. ‘You do know, though, don’t you, that they wouldn’t have the slightest problem with you being in my room?’

‘I know,’ he said, ‘but it just doesn’t feel right. It feels … disrespectful.’

‘Oh, Con. You’re so old-fashioned.’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’m a gent. And I want to give your parents something,’ he said. ‘Some money. For letting me stay.’

‘No way,’ said Daisy. ‘Dad would be insulted.’

‘He would?’

‘Yes. He doesn’t consider this house to be his house. As far as he’s concerned it’s our house. Us girls. And he and my mother are just house-sitting for us until they die. He wouldn’t dream of taking money from you.’

‘Well, then, let me buy them something. A gift.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Don’t do anything. Just relax. Just be.’

‘Be what?’

‘Be yourself. My parents don’t expect fancy presents and best behaviour. They just expect good company. Oh – and maybe a hand in the kitchen. I’ve told them all about your culinary prowess.’

‘Oh, God, you haven’t, have you?’

‘Of course. They’re dying to try your home-baked bread.’

‘Oh, shit.’

‘What?!’

‘I don’t know if I can make bread on my own, without Toby there to tell me what to do.’

‘Of course you can. We’ll do it together. You and me.’ She took his hand.

‘You and me?’

She nodded and smiled. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s get started.’