One Saturday afternoon, ringing our shrill front doorbell, and standing there like a policeman shifting from foot to foot, there was Alex March, asking for me.
Well, well, well and what have we here then?
‘Algernon Keats, please get out of my way.’
‘This is not an advisable course of action. Sit with me by the window and we will compose something altogether lovely.’
‘Algie, Algie, Algernon. I don’t want to compose anything except my own life. My actual life. Why does everyone (okay, okay, my mother and Algernon) tell me to write, write, write.
I do not want to. Not now and not ever. Now move. Please.’
Algernon stuck his hands in his dirty old twig-filled pockets. ‘I do not like this man.’
‘Well no one’s asking you to, are they? Besides, you’ve got nothing to worry about, Algie, because I don’t even like him.’
‘Then stay here and I will teach you . . .’
‘You can come if you want to or you can stay here and compose.’
He stepped aside, but he didn’t need to; wafer-thin ghost, sometimes I could walk right through him.
My father opened the front door. He shook hands with Alex March because that was the right thing to do and my father was polite and he was the vicar.
I could hear the sound of male voices chatting in the hallway then my father called up the stairs, ‘Rebecca? Rebecca?’
I decided not to answer. I knew who it was.
‘Alex March is here to see you. Rebecca?’
I know. Algernon looked happy. He smiled, his green eyes crinkled, he looked so very lovely like that. He thought he’d won. I kissed him on his pale cold face. ‘Algie, I won’t be long, all right? I’ll be back soon.’
‘Rebecca? Come down. Alex March is here to see you.
Can you hear me?’
‘Coming.’
Algernon immediately looked so sorrowful that I almost changed my mind, but slowly, slowly down the shiny wooden banister I slid my hand. My legs bounced on each stair. My father was standing casually draped in his paternal authority, watching for signs that I was not and never would be acting like I had acted with Dave.
As soon as I heard his posh Brightley voice in our hallway, I decided that Alex March could clean his own house. Walk his own dog. I had mysteries of my own to consider and I didn’t need him to be one of them. I caught snatches of conversation as I came down the stairs.
‘Life modelling . . . Jojo loves her . . . yes, absolutely . . . family settling in . . . oh good, good . . .’
‘Ah, there you are. Rebecca, Mr March is looking for his dog.’
‘Jojo?’ He doesn’t have another one, does he? Haven’t seen him for days, you snivelling bastard. I fed him and walked him and then I didn’t see you.
‘Thought I’d enlist your help to try to track Jojo down. Coming?’
Of course I was coming. ‘Won’t be long, Dad.’
‘Tea at six.’ My father closed the door. I wondered if he was putting on a hat and coat and preparing to follow us.
We walked down the road past the church.
‘How have you been?’
‘All right. When did you last see him?’
‘Actually I haven’t seen him for days. I’m sure he’ll turn up. Sophie’s probably got him.’
‘Have you asked her?’
‘Not yet. Thought you might have had him at your place. Does your father like dogs?’
‘Not much.’
‘Dear God, a country vicar who doesn’t like dogs.’
Do people change a lot in a month? I’d said yes because I liked him. Because I didn’t like him. Because I wanted nothing more to do with him but here he was and I couldn’t spend the rest of my life gathering moss, listening to poetry, and waiting for the resurrection in Brightley. We walked along looking for his lost dog. We scuffed around in bushes calling, Jojo.
He opened the doors of the pub and the familiar warm beery smell greeted us like a long-lost friend.
‘Aren’t we meant to be looking for Jojo?’
‘One beer won’t hurt, will it?’
Amanda said, ‘Hi there, Rebecca. Still okay for next weekend? There’s a wedding on and I’m really going to need your help.’
‘Sure,’ I said. You can count on me.
‘Hello, Alex. How are you? A bit early?’
He kissed her cheek. ‘Amanda.’
She raised her eyebrows at me, but I didn’t care.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Changed my mind.’
He’d parked in the pub car park and we hopped in. I say hop, but you can’t hop into a two-seater soft-top. You have to swing your body down low and sideways. It feels like your bum is only inches above the road, which it is.
He drove to the field with the donkeys. It was getting dark.
‘This has to be one of the most unexciting places in all of England.’
‘My dog might be here. Know what this field is famous for?’
‘The quality of the grass. It’s very green. Why are we here?’
‘You’ll see.’
He lit a cigarette, tossed the match away, inhaled deeply, blew a cloud of smoke out the car window. ‘You mean Flora Shillingham hasn’t told you yet?’
‘Told me what?’
‘Brightley gets this fog, locals call it the Brightley Lights.
It comes down like a thick blanket. Conditions have to be right, moisture, humidity, temperature at night. There’s no real way of telling, but a few know. Flora’s one of them. She knows all about this stuff. You can’t see anything, literally anything at all. If I hold my hand in front of my face, I’ll barely see the damn thing.’
‘My mum told me about the London smog. She said it was almost yellow and you literally couldn’t see anything in front of you. Even double-decker buses just loomed up from nowhere through the fog.’
‘This isn’t smog. This is something else entirely. I’ve seen it once before. Everything changes really quickly. It’s like a different world.’
‘It’s not summer.’
‘No, but it’s been warm enough. The temperature will drop tonight.’
‘Come on, let’s find Jojo. I don’t care about the fog.’
I didn’t want to see anything else that was unexplainable or odd.
‘Ten minutes.’
‘Five?’
‘Ten.’
‘Let’s walk.’