CHAPTER 13

ii

The Chancellory boarding house stood at the end of Broadmoor Lane. Originally an Old Country inn, it was at least two hundred years old. A gentle claw of ivy owned one side wall and part of the chimney. The inn itself had recently been converted into a more modern dwelling by offering its guests the comforts of an enclosed latrine. The seat sat over a small stream on the downward slope, spilling over rocks and emptying into a large holding pool before cascading down a slough on its way to a water wheel and granary at the bottom of the hill. There was an elm tree sitting alone at the end of the property, its contempt for Nature’s worst evident in its twisted pantomime of defiance. The yard had been weathered through the years, tortured by the elements, but every year the yard would have to be scythed and the fresh scent of cut green lawn would fill the fields. But the seasons had turned and the elm was a simple silhouette of its former self.

“Rather a strange name for a boarding house, don’t you think?”

Nigel nodded at the sign. He rather liked it though; it gave the place a certain character. The light broke through the alder, poplar and beech trees lining the lane. With the yard and its gentle slope eastward, he thought there might be some nice sunrises. As Sonia pulled into what he’d assumed was her regular parking spot, he could see lazy tendrils steaming off the roof of the shed. The wooden shingles were warped and black and looked as if no one had changed them in more than ten years.

“I like it,” Sonia said after some thought.

“Me too. It might be something to do with all the trees. It reminds me of places I might have been.”

“Rather strange, that,” she laughed, opening the door and getting out. She picked up her handbag. “I suppose we didn’t think this through, did we?” she said, looking at him directly.

“What do you mean?”

“I didn’t even consider stopping by your flat to pick up a few things for you.”

“Won’t be the first time I’ve had to live in my clothes.”

“And why’s that?” she laughed, and he watched her walking the path ahead of him. At least her calves weren’t fat, he told himself. “I swear, men are all the same. Do you all have to look like you slept in your clothes?”

“I guess everyone has his own reasons. I couldn’t imagine some of those fops at Bedloe living the way I do, anymore than I can imagine living like them. I wouldn’t mind it though, don’t get me wrong.”

“And I wouldn’t blame you one bit,” she laughed. She made her way up a set of old wooden stairs that needed work. One of the steps was a block of wood almost a foot around sitting on top of a pile of rocks.

“I can’t get my head around the idea that they change their clothes as much as they do,” Sonia was saying. “I have three of the same skirts, and two white blouses. For this time of the year, I have a darker blouse. But I have three of those. Don’t ask me how that happened. I haven’t a clue.”

“I have almost the same. I don’t see what your point is.”

“Mine don’t look like I’ve slept in them,” she smiled, and reaching above the door frame, came down with a key.

“I take it this is Grant’s room then?” Nigel smiled.

She laughed as she jiggled the door knob, pushing into the door with her shoulder.

“It sticks a bit at times. It’ll loosen up with the cold weather,” she added, stepping off the landing and into a small, compact kitchen. It barely looked large enough for the cupboards it had. The countertop was stone, as was the floor, worn smooth in places with the patience of time.

“It’s a bit smaller than I’m used to,” Nigel laughed.

“Let me show you the bedroom.”

She walked through the narrow kitchen, brushing herself up against him. Nigel looked down at her, trying not to look in her eyes. He could feel the stiffness of the brassiere and corset she was wearing under her blouse. For her part, she didn’t even notice his awkward silence and he was grateful for that. He danced around her and she laughed.

“I can’t remember the last time I went dancing,” she said over her shoulder.

“I was never a good dancer before my accident; I haven’t danced since,” Nigel stated, the reflective silence following sounding like a hesitant whisper.

And then they were in the bedroom.

“Here it is,” and she stepped aside, letting Nigel slide passed her into the room.

There was an oval rug at the foot of the bed, and another two on each side of the bed; two handcrafted nightstands, with a wash basin and jug on one, and a new lamp on the other were crowded near the head of the bed. The bed itself was wrought iron, and sat high off the floor. As long as there were no bedbugs in it, he didn’t care.

“Mind yourself on that thing,” Sonia laughed. “You’ll get a nasty bruise if you happen to roll of in the night.”

“I haven’t fallen out of my bed since I was a child,” Nigel smiled. “I’m sure I’ll be all right here.”

“There’s bound to be some thrashing about,” she said soberly, and Nigel looked at her briefly, wondering if she was being serious.

“And why would I be thrashing about?”

“Your body’s fighting against your will.”

“My will?”

She stepped into the room and sat on the bed. She looked at him and Nigel waited, then she stood up again, only to take off her jacket. When it was off, she sat back down, clutching the jacket in her arms. She heaved a heavy sigh, brushing a long strand of blonde hair away from her face. She stared at him for a moment, and he thought maybe she was trying to sort out what kind of man he might be; Nigel wondered if even he knew the answer.

“When a person tries to break away from an addiction, the body does everything it can to prevent it. It fights back. I’ve seen people hurt themselves because they thrashed themselves up against a wall, or fell off a bed and broke an arm. You will most likely feel the pain of withdrawal, and if not pain, certainly discomfort. You may clear your bowels during a pitch of fever—”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I’ll be here,” she said matter-of-factly, and he believed her.

“How long do we have before all of that starts?”

“When did you smoke your last bowl?”

“You know the answer to that. You were with me.”

“So two hours ago?”

He shrugged.

“Two hours then,” she nodded, pursing her lips and looking as if she was trying to make a reasonable guess. Nigel supposed his guess would be as good as hers, and told himself it would be sometime tomorrow. He’d been without his laced tobacco a time or two before, and while he’d always felt a sharp sense of anxiety, there was never any pain. Again, he supposed that would take place sometime tomorrow. Stomach cramps, he’d imagine.

“Late tomorrow, I’d say.”

“Not in the morning?”

“By evening, I’d think; definitely by the next day.”

“Then I suggest we go out and see if we can find you a Communist,” he smiled.