The following evening Alan called on Vittoria. As promised, he’d gathered together a parcel of books, dusted down from his attic. He was carrying those books when he entered the living room.
“How are you?” he asked.
Vittoria shrugged. “Okay, I suppose.”
Alan tapped the books. “These tomes served me well as a student. Some of them might be out of date now, but you’re welcome to them. When you have a moment, you might like to read them.”
With no real enthusiasm, Vittoria accepted the books. She studied the spines and noted a title by Sigmund Freud. “The Interpretation of Dreams.”
Alan nodded. He asked, “Do you agree with Freud’s theories?”
Vittoria sat up. She leaned forward slightly, displaying mild interest. “How can I argue against Freud?” she asked. “I’m just me, a nobody.”
Alan smiled. He sat on the armchair and placed his hands behind his head. When he relaxed he liked to slouch, claimed it was good for his back.
“He’s just Freud,” Alan said, “a person with a string of interesting ideas. Personally, I don’t agree with his ideas, but that doesn’t mean I’m right, or wrong. There’s nothing wrong with absorbing ideas we’re opposed to; it helps us to clarify our views on certain issues. And, incidentally,” he added, “you’re not a nobody; your theories are as valid as Freud’s.”
Vittoria inched forward. While cradling Freud’s book, she asked, “Whose ideas do you believe in?”
“I like to formulate my own ideas, but I do believe in the Humanists. Have you studied the Humanists?”
Vittoria frowned. She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“The ideas of Maslow and Rogers, the hierarchy of needs, the self concept...I think you’ll find them fascinating.” Alan sat forward. Although Mac and yours truly were in the room, it seemed as though Alan and Vittoria had minds only for each other. “It’s stopped raining,” he observed. “How about a stroll on the beach. We can pick up some shells, for Sam’s bracelet...”
Vittoria followed Alan’s gaze to the window, then through the window to the sand dunes and the beach. “Okay,” she said after a moment’s thought.
While Alan and Vittoria walked along the beach, Mac and I strolled through the sand dunes. The day was blustery and showery, so the beach was largely deserted, ideal for Alan’s purpose, at a guess.
From a distance, we watched as Alan tossed pebbles into the sea, stooped to examine scatterings of driftwood, and talk with Vittoria. Although still reserved, she seemed more at ease today and, occasionally, offered the suggestion of a smile.
“I wonder what’s troubling her,” I mused.
“The good Dr Storey will get to the bottom of it, have no doubt. He’s a fine man. Maybe I should move in with him, after offering you first refusal, of course.”
I arched a cautionary eyebrow. “He likes you, Mac, but I can promise you, Alan is firmly heterosexual.”
“Care to elaborate?” he grinned.
“No I would not.” I turned to glance at Mac, who was staring at me with intent. “Don’t look at me like that,” I complained; “look at the sea.”
The wind had blown my hair across my face and I felt content to leave it there, until my embarrassment had faded and the colour had drained from my cheeks.
“Maybe I should move in with you and Faye,” Mac suggested. “How is Faye, incidentally?”
“She’s settled in well. She’s in North Wales, touring a chain of hotels as a mystery guest. She’s a bit obsessed with neatness. Actually, more than a bit obsessed, but she’s loyal and dedicated, a good worker and a good friend.”
“You take in a stray cat and a lady with a troubled past,” Mac reflected, “ever thought of opening a home for waifs and strays?”
I grinned, “If you did move in with us, it would be like the morning rush hour in the bathroom.”
“Aye,” Mac nodded, “and I need my morning bathroom time, me; I need a good half hour to shave my head.” He ran a hand over his bald pate. “If I didn’t, you see, my hair would be as long as yours in no time.”
“You’re going bald, Mac; you shave your head because you have a rapidly receding hairline. And,” I added, “a bald head makes you look more of a brute.”
“I’m no macho man, me,” Mac insisted while puffing out his chest, while dragging himself up to his full height, “I’m just a little pussycat.”
“The heavy with a heart.”
“Aye,” he grinned, “and an empty wallet.”
While studying Alan and Vittoria, I said, “You’re obsessed with money, Mac.”
“No, not me. Just showing a healthy interest in the filthy lucre. It’s my Presbyterian upbringing, you know.”
On the beach, Alan and Vittoria examined a series of large rocks and boulders. Many of the boulders were smooth and flat, relics from the days when limestone was quarried on the beach and burnt in limekilns to make fertiliser. In the seventeenth century, the bay was a port. However, a local landmark, Tusker Rock, ensured that many ships were wrecked and so the locals abandoned the port and returned to the land. A hundred years later, smugglers made use of the bay and, apparently, secret passageways ran from the beach into the village of Newton. What secrets did the village hold? What was troubling Vittoria? Would Alan obtain the answers?
While Alan and Vittoria continued their chat, gathered shells, examined the flotsam and jetsam, used driftwood to score pictures in the sand, I said to Mac, “Tell me about your upbringing; I know nothing about that.”
Mac eyed me with some suspicion. Then he delved into his greatcoat pocket and produced a large bar of fruit and nut chocolate. He offered the chocolate to me. “Care for a bite?”
“I’d rather hear about your past,” I said.
Mac broke four squares of chocolate from the bar and slipped them into his mouth. He proceeded to suck and chew with great contentment.
“You ain’t gonna tell me, are you?” I surmised.
“Maybe one day,” he conceded.
“Why fruit and nut; why not just chocolate?” I probed. Sometimes, I ask the most ridiculous questions.
“One of my five a day; you know, one of my five portions of fruit and veg.”
“Fruit and nut chocolate?” I frowned. My fault, ask a daft question, get a stupid answer. “I don’t think so, Mac.”
“Actually, Missy,” Mac paused as though on the verge of a sensational breakthrough: Galileo on the brink of a great discovery. “As you quite accurately state, this is fruit and nut; so two of my five a day.”
Five minutes later, Alan and Vittoria strolled from the beach, their hands cupped, clasping shells and pebbles. Alan allowed Vittoria to walk ahead with Mac then he paused and said to me, “Maybe tomorrow.”