Chapter 34
It was definitely time for a drink, Roger decided as he made Swallow fast at the little jetty. Exploration of the kitchen cupboard revealed exactly one bottle of beer. It looked frankly inadequate, but Roger was in no mood to ride to the foot or the head of the lake to buy more. He took the bottle back to the little jetty. Edward had made a little pile of stones for throwing into the lake. He hadn't really selected the best ones for skimming, but they would do.
Roger finished the beer. There was still plenty of light left. He didn't feel like cooking supper and it was too early really. He looked up the cottage and walked along the shore road, forcing himself to walk as quickly as he could. He turned off the road before he reached Swainson's farm and skirted passed it, far enough away from the farm not to set the dogs barking. At least he had judged that right. He continued up to Swallowdale. It was all pretty much as he remembered it. There was no point looking inside Peter Duck. He gave a wry, twisted smile, remembering the catastrophic, as he had then thought expedition there with Dorothea. Something to be thankful for. Quite a lot to be thankful for really. They would have bored each other stupid. Rowan wasn't boring. Maddening, perhaps, but not boring.
He climbed up out of Swallowdale to Trout Tarn and the Watchtower still determinedly ignoring the beauty of the landscape. The light was beginning to acquire a golden cast, although there was plenty of time yet until sunset. He set out in the general direction of Beckfoot. It probably wouldn't help him sleep any better, but the thought of sitting in the cottage and trying to concentrate of any of the modest collection of books on the shelf wasn't to be borne. He as about half way across the moorland and the long daylight was definitely weakening when he realise that arriving at Beckfoot would be even worse. The children would be in bed, which would leave Nancy free to come out onto the lawn to talk to him. Nancy would be surprised he wasn't spending the evening with Rowan. Even if she was tactful about it, the last thing Roger wanted to do at the moment was spend the rest of the evening talking to his brother's overly hearty wife. He turned instead downhill. He would find a way back to the shore of the Lake somewhere well short of Beckfoot.
He poked about in the food cupboard on his return to the cottage. He couldn't be bothered peeling potatoes. Even the tinned steak and kidney pie didn't really appeal. In the end he fried a couple of eggs and made a sandwich of them, pointedly ignoring the lettuce sitting on the kitchen table.
His investigations had revealed a bottle of whiskey at the very back of the cupboard. He had never quite understood his sister and brother-in-law's particular liking for the drink; it seemed in some way out of character. He recognised the name though; this was a single malt and was probably a Christmas present, or perhaps a birthday present from Dorothea. He shouldn't open it. He looked more carefully. It had already been opened, but very little had been drunk from it. One each, most probably. Perhaps one drink, after all, would not matter. After a little while, Roger decided that perhaps he could see what the fuss was about, but it was not after all, his present. An idea, which had less than half-formed in Swallowdale suddenly developed details and became a whole plan. It might not come to anything, but it was worth a try.
Titty's tin of writing stuff, when he found it still had Swallow's ship's papers in it. Roger's fountain pen was still in the houseboat. So were his toothbrush, flannel and shaving kit. Titty had taken her fountain pen back to Leeds with her. Roger settled on a pencil. He would be very surprised indeed if Titty did not have a spare toothbrush tucked away in the little bathroom cabinet – visitors for the use of, as Rowan would say.
Dear Dorothea,
I was rather hoping that the next time I wrote to you, it would be to tell you that I'm engaged to be married. No such luck. The sticking point is that she's soon to be out of a job and has been chucked out by her father. (If any man ever deserved the black spot! I'd be inclined to set Nancy on him, but I'd rather have the pleasure of dealing with him myself. That's not the important thing just at the moment.) Anyway, Rowan (and I feel sure Mrs Dixon has probably written to you about her. )might be rather more inclined to accept my suit if she had a job – and one in Oxfordshire, preferably south Oxfordshire would be even better. So since you're the only person I know with any particular connection to the area I wondered if you might know anyone who would like to employ a hard-working, honest, well-organised, well-educated and absolutely wonderful young woman?
It was fairly unlikely of course, but at least he had made a push to do something. He probably should enquire after the small McGintysand the not quite so young chieftain too. He finished the letter, finished the drink and went to bed and slept, albeit poorly.