Page 93 of One Summer

Hermit

Several days pass and I don’t see Caleb leave his house or go into the garden, not even to use the washing line. It’s as if he’s completely turned into a hermit – one who’s given up on laundry, or bought a tumble dryer.

On the fourth day, I’m on my way back from walking Ted, when Caleb appears in his garden and watches me coming towards him. This makes me feel suddenly self-conscious in a way that few things ever have. Why is he watching me walking? It’s weird. He suddenly seems to realise this, because he turns his body a little and stares out to sea. When I reach him, he no longer seems to want to look at me at all.

‘I know you heard me on the phone being rude about you the other day,’ he says.

‘You weren’t rude. You were horrible.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I was out of order. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.’

‘I do,’ I say. ‘It’s called being an arsehole.’

He bites his lip but doesn’t disagree.

‘I deserve that.’

‘So why were you so horrible?’

‘I didn’t want the person I was talking with to think there was anything going on between us.’

‘Why would they? When there so clearly isn’t.’

He’s breathing hard, as if he’s been running, but there’s not the tiniest shimmer of sweat on his brow.

‘What are you doing tonight?’ he asks, looking uncomfortable.

‘Nothing much…’

Why is he asking?

‘I’m thinking of going out,’ he says, his voice thick with something I can’t determine. ‘And I wondered if you might want to come with me.’

Do I?

‘Not really. I’ll be busy watching mudlarking videos all night. Maybe some rock-cutting to mix things up.’

‘Look, I really want to talk to you, Lindy.’

He seems so vulnerable and upset as he says it, that my resolve softens a smidge.

‘Where are you even going?’

‘The fifties-style ice cream place that Halloon’s just opened, down from the Merry Maid. It’s supposed to be good, and it stays open until ten.’

I bite my lip. What’s this all about? Why does he suddenly want to talk to me after giving me the cold shoulder for days? After his snidey comments during his phone call, why would he want to sign up for more of my boringness?

‘So?’ he presses. ‘Are you in?’

The thought of decent ice cream is tempting. I haven’t had an ice cream since I got here, on account of it being £6.50 for one scoop of Loormaid from Amos, the island’s sole ice cream man.

‘Okay, but I’ll meet you there,’ I say. ‘I have some stuff to do first.’

‘It’s called Lenny’s Frozen Emporium.’

‘Who’s Lenny?’

‘Halloon thought “Lenny” sounded more American than “Halloon”.’

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