Page 8 of The Start of the Story
I couldn’t, and wouldn’t, apologise for the weather. It was autumn in North Yorkshire. What had he expected, thirty-degree sunshine and barbecues?
‘It’s cold and it’s wet and I’m living in a house with neighbours who’ve got the Hound of the Baskervilles one side and what sounds like a family of fifteen the other.’ He hunched forward now, hiding his face in his hands. ‘I’ve not had a night’s sleep since I arrived, and I’d book into a hotel only I’ve signed up to be here for six months and a professor’s salary isn’t up to it. I’ve only got two more days before I have to sign for the house for the full six months and I don’t think I can stand the torture, but it’s that or a tent.’ He raised his face, and I could see the shadows under his eyes now I wasn’t being misled by the cheeky grin and the incessant upbeat chat. ‘I don’t suppose you know someone who’s renting a room out, do you?’
I mentally combed through my list of acquaintances. It was short. ‘Not really. I might know someone over in Helmsley who’s looking for a housemate…’
‘Helmsley.’ Connor slumped even further into the chair. ‘That’s one of those places about a hundred miles from York, yes?’
‘Twenty-five. On a good day. You could rent a car. It’s a very pretty drive.’
‘Is that where you live?’
The question surprised me. My domestic situation had absolutely nothing to do with the present circumstances, but the backwash of guilt made me answer. ‘Er, no, I live out in the middle of nowhere, about ten miles from Helmsley. On the moors,’ I added, just to reinforce the idea that I might spend my days sitting on the Fairy Stane, in case that had been featuring anywhere in his thought processes.
‘Only I don’t drive, y’see.’ This admission startled me almost as much as his question about my living arrangements. ‘I’ve no sense of direction at all, and I’m a danger to myself and every mortal soul when I’m behind a wheel.’ The merest hint of a return of the charm began to tinge his words. ‘And I shouldn’t have come over here without even knowing where I was going to live or how I was going to travel around, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Ah, y’know, life happens and it’s good to be out of Dublin for a while.’
Chess came in with the extra mug of tea and perched herself on the edge of my desk, looking from one of us to the other. ‘What’s wrong with the house you’re in now?’ she asked, interestedly. Then, seeing my slightly taken-aback look, ‘I was listening. It’s really quite hard not to, when he’s yelling and the kitchen is only half an inch of plywood away.’ She made a ‘sorry-not-sorry’ face.
Connor took the offered tea and stared into it as though the answer to Chess’s question might be inscribed on the surface.
‘Ah, it’s not so bad,’ he said. ‘It’s only six months. How long does it take to die of sleep deprivation anyway?’
‘Stop it,’ I said firmly. ‘What exactlyiswrong with your current place?’
I got a return of the smile now. It seemed that Professor O’Keefe couldn’t keep dissatisfaction up for very long and his usual upbeat demeanour was bouncing back. ‘On the left they’ve got a dog that sits outside and howls all hours, and on the other what sounds like the population of a small town, all under the age of seven. So all day it’s competitive shrieking on the one side, and then when they go quiet, out goes the dog and starts up with the howling. It’s like one of those modern novels,’ he added.
‘Wow.’ Chess fiddled with her updo. She’d retouched her eye make-up whilst she’d been making the tea, I noticed, and nowlooked like an Amy Winehouse album cover. Connor O’Keefe was clearly on her radar. ‘That sounds dreadful.’
‘Do you know anyone who’s got somewhere the professor could rent for six months?’ I asked her. The problem of his housing situation had blended with my sense of remorse and become something I needed to remedy. ‘You’ve got loads of friends, Chess, you must know someone.’
Chess stuck her tongue out, thinking. ‘No, not really,’ she said slowly. ‘Not that would be suitable, anyway. Students are back and everywhere even halfway rentable has gone to them.’ The tongue wiggled. ‘You can make a lot of money, renting to students.’
‘Ah now,’ Connor sighed. ‘There’s always the earplugs. And headphones. And probably the pillow. I’ll be fine.’
‘What about your place?’ Chess turned to me, the tongue making a sudden withdrawal as she was struck with inspiration. ‘You’ve got a spare room, haven’t you?’
I had a sudden flash of my quiet, peaceful home. That air of undisturbed silence that was sometimes my greatest friend and sometimes my worst enemy. ‘No,’ I said, quickly, and wriggled so that my borrowed trousers tinkled in emphasis.
Chess frowned against the considerable strain caused by the updo. ‘You have,’ she said accusingly. ‘You’re always saying you’ve got a room you never even go in. And you’re coming into town most days, so transport wouldn’t be a problem.’
‘No,’ I said again, even faster this time.
But Connor was sitting up straighter now and the protective coat had fallen away to flop over the sides of the chair, like a valance. ‘You say you live near the moors? So you’d be handy for the work out there?’
‘“No” is a complete sentence,’ I said, a rising sense of panic making me speak breathlessly.
There was a short pause. ‘No, it isn’t,’ Chess said eventually. ‘There’s no subject or object, so it can’t be.’
‘Well, I don’t want to impose or anything.’ Connor was still sitting up, alert, looking like a greyhound waiting for the hare to come by. ‘But it wouldn’t be for too long, just until I could find something more convenient?’
Mental images tumbled in. A man’s coat over the back of my sofa. Toiletries in the bathroom, singing on the stairs, the radio tuned to something I never listened to. Alexa randomly playing music I didn’t know. Laughter. Proper meals.
‘No,’ I said again, but aware that my tone lacked the rigour it previously had.
‘Oh, go on,’ said Chess. ‘Something’s bound to come up in York soon.’
‘Something affordable,’ Connor mitigated. ‘But I can pay you something for the room. To cover electricity and – stuff.’
The thought of the occupation of my house was pushed out by the thought of my bank balance. Not dire, not yet, but the grant was tiny and petrol costs were rising again, along with electricity and food costs. The thought of the damp patch over the back door jabbed me with a sharp corner of guilt. Ididneed the money, damn him. If I played host to Connor O’Keefe for a short while it might earn me enough to fix those niggling issues without having to empty the savings account.
