Florence

Florence collected her food and took it over to the table. She was as nicely rounded in front, Andrew thought. When Florence sat down again, he nodded at her. "Have a nice meal," he said. "Care for another drink?"

"Yes, please," she said. "A Merlot."

She tucked into her meal with some enthusiasm. It was nicer to have someone to talk to - and his being a stranger made it easier.

He returned with a large red wine and a small whisky, and put the wine on the table in front of her. Then he sat down, beamed at her and leant back.

Florence enjoyed her food. When she had finished half of it she asked, "Have you eaten yet?"

Andrew nodded. "Yes," he said. "It was rather nice. How's your fish?"

"Good," Florence said. "I like eating here every once in a while."

Andrew sat looking at her while she finished her meal. He liked what he saw very much - lovely face, beautiful eyes, and a voice he loved listening to - and he enjoyed her company. One evening taken care of!

When Florence had finished, the barmaid collected her plate. Florence sat back and picked up her glass. "Thank you," she said. "Nice!" She slowly took a long sip. "So you'll be here for some ten days or so?"

Andrew nodded. "I'll be motoring back on New Year's Day," he said, "when the danger's over." This was accompanied by a broad grin, but Florence noticed his eyes didn't smile. He really means it, she thought.

"You could take part in the quiz on the 27th," she said. "One of the members of our team will be away so there's really a place for you."

"I'd love to," he said. "Not that I expect to be much good..."

"Oh well, you never know. The more the merrier, after all."

"Well, if I can help out, I'll be here. I'd love to see you again!"

"Good - then that's arranged. What do you intend to do while you're here?"

"I think I'll go and see places - visit the odd church and museum, maybe go to Leicester for the day - that sort of thing. Is there anywhere I shouldn't miss?"

"Christchurch Mansion in Ipswich?" Florence said, a little doubtfully. "I just like the country, really, and the seaside is great when you are at a quiet beach somewhere. But I don't know if that's what you want?"

"I do, rather," he said. "I'll try and find out some more. Are you a great traveller?"

Florence shook her head. She briefly told him a little about her history, and he nodded.

"Life's weird," he said. "And people are very weird at times. It gives you something to think or write about, or to put into art, but you keep thinking it might be so much different... That's why I'm here."

"Do you write?"

"I make some feeble attempts at poetry and prose, and the occasional song, but none too often. Just to while away the time."

"So that was what you were doing just now."

He nodded. "I prefer human contacts, though," he said, and this time he really smiled. "No way I could write now."

"And what do you do for a living?"

Andrew sighed. "I do some teaching," he said, "and I try to write pop songs of the singer-songwriter type. Some of them have actually been recorded. I'm busy on one of them now - called "Surf's Up." He shook his head. "I don't mind teaching, but now and then I wish I could do something different with the things I can do."

Florence nodded. "Yes," she said. "I know."

She slowly sipped her wine and thought of all the things that had happened since her mother's death. "I'm reasonably happy in my work," she said, "but something is missing. I'm not sure what it is, though." She thought about it but as usual she couldn't quite decide what it was.

"Difficult," she said, and downed the last draught of wine. "I'd better go home - it'll be early hours again tomorrow."

"Ok," Andrew said. "Thank you for talking to me! Er, you are serious about allowing me on the team on the 27th? I'm really looking forward to it!"

"Yes, please," Florence said. "See you then!"

She smiled at Andrew, and he nodded, and beamed back at her. He apparently had enjoyed her presence, she thought. Hmmm.

Andrew looked at her as she put on her coat and went out into the darkness. When he was certain she would not look back he let his face fall. Five more days before he'd see her again... He could hardly wait. If only he could speak to her again... He guessed she'd be about his age. She was beautiful and sexy, with something indefinable about her that he couldn't place. Something wrong? No, definitely not. He wondered what she'd be like in bed. Either a lump of ice or the extreme opposite, he thought. He would really love to find out. But still...

There was a cloudless sky overhead, and as the village didn't have too many street lights, the stars were all clearly visible. Florence thought it had been a good idea to go out that evening; it had stopped her from worrying and feeling alone. It would be nice to see Andrew again; there was something quite likeable about his eyes and the set of his mouth, he had a pleasant voice and he was really handsome.

The path across the green was a little wet in places, but she'd walked it so often that she knew exactly where to sidestep the puddles. Halfway the green she stopped and looked around. There was a light in the window of the village shop, and at the back the sign of the George was brightly lit. The houses on the green showed dim lights behind draw curtains. She knew who lived in each of them, and she liked a good many of their inhabitants. It was a nice place to live. Even so, life was a little lonely sometimes. She envied Janet and Bill, who she usually walked back with on quiz night, as they strolled across the green arm in arm or with Bill's arm around Janet's waist, sometimes whispering something private... It would be nice if she had someone to whisper to as well.

She shook her head and continued on her way. She had one of the nicest houses in all the village, she thought. It had been on an early postcard that was printed in a book about the area, and it was a very comfortable place. But there, too, it might be nice to have a companion, a friend - a lover? Her former boyfriends had never reached that status, as she'd been too blue and too timid for any of that, not to mention too afraid of her mother's stinging tongue. She sighed. There were no eligible bachelors in the neighbourhood.

She wondered where this train of thought had come from and realised that the evening's conversation might have something to do with it. Andrew really was very likeable. She made a face. He lived in Glasgow, of all places. Moreover, she didn't know anything about him apart from the very little he'd told her... He might be terrible in real life. She arrived on her doorstep and went in. It was rather late, and she went straight to bed.

III. Christmas

Florence had decided not to go to the pub before quiz night - but on Christmas Eve she felt unaccountably restless. She'd lit a fire on coming home, but she didn't fell in the mood to sit and watch the flames, and the food she was cooking smelled dull. She wrinkled her nose. It was dull. She ate her unattractive meal without joy. There would be Midnight Mass - actually it would start at eleven o'clock - where she could sit and celebrate the birth of the Child... Her own birth had been little cause for celebration; her mother had been less than thrilled. She felt quite moody, and she didn't know if she'd be able to stomach the happy faces of the other people.

She packed her dinner things into the dishwasher and made herself a cup of tea which she took into the living room. She looked over her music. What could she play in this mood? She unenthusiastically took a CD and opened it. Then she closed the box again and put the thing back into its slot.

She didn't feel like listening; she wanted a face to talk to. She hoped Andrew hadn't gone anywhere far so he'd still be on the road, and she put on her coat and left for the George.

The day had been cold and grey, with an abundance of cloud that had sometimes felt damp, sometimes turned into a thin drizzle. Now the clouds were breaking, and there were bits of night sky with a quarter moon and the stars. It was getting colder still; temperatures must have dropped well below freezing point. Florence put her hands deep in her pockets. It wasn't far, and she stopped again to watch the nocturnal aspect of her village. She really, really enjoyed the view. It was peaceful and very beautiful.

The lights in the George looked friendly and welcoming; there were some strings of coloured lights by way of decorations, and the publican had put a couple of candles on the surface of the bar. The pub was not very crowded; most people apparently spent Christmas Eve in the safety of their own homes. If only Andrew were in... It would make a difference. He was. He stood at the bar, talking to Mary, the barmaid, ordering a drink. When Florence said hello, he turned around and his face lit up. He treated her to a bright smile and he took both her hands.

"Good to see you," he said.

"You know Florence?" Mary asked. She had been off duty two days earlier.

"Yes, we've met," Andrew said. "What will you have?"

"Another Merlot, please," she said. "Where are you sitting?"

"Same corner," Andrew said.

Florence went over to the little table and hung her coat over the chair back. Andrew paid, and picked up the drinks.

"Glad to see you," he said as he put the drinks on the table. "Life's dull without you. I'd brought a book to read, but I much prefer your company. So what brings you here?"

"Feeling restless, I suppose. Until two years ago I spent every Christmas with my mother, caring for her, mothering her in a way - she was very demanding - and when she died I thought it would be nice to celebrate Christmas in my own way. But this year the few people I really like are not available, and so I'm all alone - and there's little to celebrate that way."

"I know how that feels. Do you miss her a lot?"

"No!" Florence said vehemently. "I'm sorry to say so, but I really disliked her."

Andrew looked at her questioningly.

"I might as well tell you," Florence said. "I don't want all the world to know, not here. But it will be nice to unburden myself. No-one else knows, except for my aunt."

She had a sip of her drink and embarked on her story.

Andrew listened attentively. When she'd finished he nodded. "What an awful way to grow up," he said. "And she took almost all your life... It's horrible and a little strange. I can't make out that mother of yours."

"She must have hated me because I was in the way, and because I'd inherited James's money... Robert seems to have been the be-all and end-all for her."

Andrew looked at her a little dubiously. "Still," he said, "it somehow seems a little inexplicable."

"Why?"

"Well - I don't know, really. I'll have to give it some thought. Did you find anything strange in that diary?"

"It's all of it strange."

"Yes, of course - but that's not what I mean."

Florence shrugged. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe you could read it yourself. But it's not a nice read."

Andrew nodded. "I think I'd like to do so. Maybe it will explain things after all."

"Ok. I'll bring it next time, right?"

"Good," Andrew said. "Will there be night mass?"

"I think so. Would you like to go? We could go together."

"Mmm, yes - that would be great! Shall we?"

He smiled at her, and she got a warm feeling somehow. It seemed that he was trying to look through her - no, into her... He seemed truly interested. His eyes were beautiful.

"Yes please," she said.

Andrew got up and walked to the bar to ask Jem Bulwer, the publican, if it would be a problem if he went to church that night.

"We're going ourselves," Jem said. "We can walk back together."

"Right-oh. Then I'll come, too."

"That's alright. So - another drink?"

They spent the time before eleven o'clock talking about their respective hobbies. Florence animatedly told him all about necklaces, and Andrew chimed in with Egyptian art he'd seen - he knew a little about it, though not half as much as Florence.

He told her a little about his love for music, and the various styles that he liked best. It was a field Florence liked to hear about. They had quite some loves in common, it seemed.

The bell for the last round was rung at ten. Jem wanted to close at ten thirty so he could get ready for mass; the pub was nearly empty by that time anyway.

They left together at twenty to eleven; it gave them ample time to get there and not be confined to a seat at the very back. The vicar greeted them at the door. He bade Andrew a special welcome, as he didn't know him, and the atmosphere in church with the Christmas decorations and the village choir carolling was warm and welcoming.

Florence sat down next to Andrew. He looked sideways at her and smiled, and she smiled back, feeling suddenly a little shy.

She kept looking at him at times during mass. She liked the way he looked; he was nice and friendly and handsome, and there was something reassuring about him. She'd bring the diary along as soon as possible - even though she didn't quite see what could be the matter. There were a few grey hairs at his temples, and she wondered how old he was - not too different from her own age, she thought.

He often looked her way, too, and when their eyes met, she smiled, a little bashfully. She once felt herself blush. She couldn't quite place the look in his eyes. Longing? Desire? He obviously enjoyed her presence.

Mass was over far too soon to her liking. Everyone slowly trooped out of the church, and Andrew, who was returning with the Bulwers, took his leave from her.

"Thank you very much, Florence," he said. "I really enjoyed this with you!"

"So did I," she said. "Goodnight, Andrew. See you soon!"

She walked away from them, into the frosty night, towards her house. When she came at the corner she looked back. Andrew looked her way, too, and waved.

When she came home she first put the diary into her coat pocket. If he wanted to read it, that was alright. It had been a lovely evening... It really had. She went to bed feeling drowsy and happy, and though she lay down wanting to rerun the evening in her mind, she was asleep within seconds.

Halfway Christmas morning there was a telephone call. Florence answered the phone to be greeted by her aunt's voice. She wished her a happy Christmas, and then went on to ask her how she'd been.

Florence told her a little about her visits to the pub, and her encounter with Andrew, the night mass, and his remarks about her story.

"What is it he has in mind?" aunt Martha said.

"I don't know, really."

"Okay... So what is he like?"

"He's quite nice... He has a nice voice and face. He teaches and writes songs."

"Age? Married? Children?"

"Oh, aunt Martha - how should I know? He said something about his sister, wife and daughter having died on the same day..."

"And you never asked?"

"Er, no. No, I didn't."

"Don't you want to know? Or are you so busy with your own plight that you can't be bothered?"

Florence remained silent for a while. Then she said, a little taken aback, "I don't know, really. It never occurred to me to ask. I should have... He must think I'm awfully unfeeling."

"Maybe you could be a little more vocal about your interest in him... Flo, Flo, do grow up, sweetie! He does seem to like you?"

"I think so. I'll ask him about it when I see him again... Maybe I do think too much about my own problems. How's your Christmas time?"

Aunt Martha told her all about it in great detail, happily chatting away for over half an hour; then she rang off.

Florence shook her head - she always got slightly deaf from those too long sessions by phone - and sat down to take stock of her thoughts. Did she like Andrew? Yes she did - but did she feel for him, too? Did she now? She thought back to her time in church. She hadn't heard a lot of the service - but she did remember how comfortable and pleasant his presence so close beside her had been, and how he'd smiled at her, and how she'd blushed, unaccountably... He'd be going home, all the way to Glasgow, in about a week. She would miss him. The George without him seemed a very different place.

And aunt Martha was right, of course. If she really liked him she ought to show an interest in him, too - so far she'd just enjoyed his obvious interest in her. And she did want to know; it was just that apparently the whole shocking situation was still rankling so much it drove everything else from her mind. She decided to go and see if he was in that evening, and ask him, and bring the diary, too.

Somehow it must have been a good idea, for she felt a lot less stressed once she'd made the decision. She spent the rest of the day reading - she'd bought "Bring Up the Bodies" and she delved into Thomas Cromwell's history with fervour. She had a light dinner with a glass of port at seven, and then she put on her coat and went out. It was cold. Really cold. She tried to disappear into her coat and shawl, and she put her gloved hand deep into her coat pockets. The day had been grey, and there were no stars; the path across the green was hardly visible in the light of the few street lamps the village boasted. But it was no matter; she knew the path well, and the lights of the George showed the way anyhow.

She went in. There were a few patrons sitting at the bar, and there was a couple she knew at one of tables. Andrew wasn't there. She walked to the bar and greeted Jem, who stood putting away a bunch of glasses.

"Hello, Florence," he said. "What'll you have?"

"The usual, Jem. Andrew's not in?"

"He went motoring this morning. I expect he'll be back any moment - the weather forecast is not too favourable for motoring. And at night, in a strange area? He seems level-headed enough."

Florence nodded. She took her glass and sat down. She made a face at herself. She'd expected Andrew to be in his usual corner...

He came into the bar about half an hour later, stamping his feet. "Brrr," he said "It's started to snow. Boy, it's cold! Hi, Jem - I'll have a double Bells, please."

Then he saw Florence and put up his hand. "Hello," he said, and he went over to greet her. She got up to shake his hand, and the same feeling she'd had the night before returned at once when she saw the way he smiled at her. "You're alright for drinks?" he said. She nodded.

"Okay," he said. He went back to the bar and collected his whisky, and sat down at Florence's table.

"How was your day?" he said.

"It was nice. I had a call from aunt Martha this morning - she's my favourite aunt, in her mid-seventies, but very keen - and I spent most of the time reading Mantel. I brought you the diary, by the way."

She took it from her clutch and handed it to Andrew.

"Thank you," he said with a smile, and put it into his coat pocket. "I'll read it tonight. Now's not the time for it."

She smiled back at him. "What did you do today?" she asked.

"I went to the coast," he said. "I visited St Andrew's in Covehithe and then drove down to the beach near there. I walked along the sea for a long time, and I had dinner somewhere on the way back. It was quite beautiful. You do live in a lovely part of the world!"

"Good," she said. "I do agree. Look - what happened to your family? You said three of them died on the same day?"

Andrew flinched. "Yes," he said. "That was really horrible. I was in Lisbon, for a conference, some five years ago, and it was close to the holidays, and so we'd decided I'd stay on there, and Lizzie, my wife, and my sister and my son would join me there." He sighed. "It seemed a nice place to be and we'd never visited Portugal. So they flew to Lisbon, and I went to meet them there. When I arrived at the airport, the arrivals board gave no landing time to their flight number. Instead everyone coming to meet the flight was told to report to a special room. It's strange - I went to have a cup of coffee, and when I went back to the arrivals area I was actually surprised it still did. So I went there to be told there was no information as yet, but that the flight had gone off the radar. You can imagine how worried you get... Eventually the airport authorities informed us that yes, their plane had crashed. It had caught fire, and there were no survivors. And then you think - that may, er - maybe they were not on it - maybe they er, missed it - and you ask if they have the passenger list, and they say they aren't free to give it as yet, and so you hang on there for a long time... Erm - they'd duly caught their plane, of course."