I helped myself to a bowlful of strawberries and ate them all before answering. ‘Holiday maker?’ I hazarded.
‘Not bad, but still wrong. I’m not on holiday. I rarely take a holiday. The last one was over five years ago.’
‘Oh, then I don’t know. It’s too hot to guess. Tell me.’
‘Certainly not. You must find out for yourself.’
‘Oh, if you insist. But not right now. I can’t think in this temperature,’ I said. I looked at my watch. ‘Anyway, I should really be getting back. My mother will have some food ready soon, and she doesn’t like to see it spoiled.’
‘Then you must certainly go. Mothers and meals must never be kept waiting. Come back another day if you like. I’m always at home. Any time you’re passing.’
As I walked the short distance back to our own cottage, I realised that I had never found the neighbour’s name. Still, I thought, he doesn’t know mine either.
It was almost a week before I went back again. For some reason which I found difficult to define, I hadn’t told my mother about our neighbour. It’s all part of a growing maturity to have little secrets from a parent, but at the time I didn’t think in that way. Besides, she was rather distracted, and clearly welcomed the fact that I found my own entertainment. So soon after my father’s death, she was still withdrawn, more than usually.
It was late morning and the dew diamonds had long since evaporated from the grass. No matter. There would be others another day. The neighbour was sitting in the garden underneath the bee tree, apparently painting a picture of the cottage. He looked up at my arrival, and waved me to the other seat, from where I could watch what he was doing. It didn’t look bad, but I was no expert in art. At least it looked like the cottage. I mean, it wasn’t just a representative daub which many paintings seem