It was now a brilliantly sunny morning, with just the gentlest of zephyrs disturbing the air. Martin slipped quietly down the path to the front door of the cottage. He'd been slightly alarmed to see that his Aunt's vehicle wasn't parked in its usual spot and he felt a sudden anxious pang that an unforeseen event may have thwarted her plans. As he pushed open the front door, it was immediately obvious that Louisa, at least, was in residence, as the discordant caterwauling, to which she referred as music, violently and emphatically assaulted him as he stepped across the threshold. There was also a distinct odour of burnt toast, and one glance at the bucket of chicken scraps by the door confirmed his suspicions.
He noticed that her portable radio/cassette was on the bench, teetering near the edge, seemingly having vibrated to the limit of its power cord. He removed the plug from the wall, and decided to shift the appliance to a safer position, scowling disapprovingly as he noticed that the volume had been turned all the way up to 'max'.
"Auntie Joan." He called out, slightly tentatively, scanning the room.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the house, his gaze fell on Louisa, who stood, in a somewhat combative stance, arms folded and glaring at him, beside the table.
"Do you know where she is?" Martin said, rather abruptly.
"Hello Martin." She replied pointedly. "And I was listening to that."
"Umm, yes, hello." He replied, somewhat distractedly, before adding in a slightly hectoring tone. "Tell me, are you actively trying to destroy your hearing? Has premature deafness become your immediate goal?"
Taken aback, Louisa pulled an incredulous face.
"Are you serious? It wasn't even loud."
"Any noise level over 85 decibels can cause hearing loss in children, Louisa." He replied gravely, his scowl intensifying.
She stared back at him speculatively, a disbelieving smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
"Umm, just so you know, Martin, it's music actually, not noise and, also, luckily, I'm not a child." She countered, with quite some degree of hauteur.
"Really?" He replied archly. "On both counts, I remain unconvinced."
Was it just Louisa, or were all teenage girls as spirited and fervent as she was, he wondered. She was so clearly in the wrong, and had no idea about what might be sensible but his annoyance was, he realised, tempered with a grudging respect for her refusal to be cowed, especially in her current difficult circumstances.
"Hold your horses then." She said with mock derision, before the effort of appearing annoyed made her laugh; her body becoming loose limbed and light with mirth, as she moved towards the couch, exhibiting a particular gait he'd begun to recognise; half skipping, half gliding as if she was struggling to control some sort of exuberant life force within herself.
Retrieving Joan's note, she handed it to him and, before he'd had a chance to read it, she added, somewhat solemnly:
"Plus, there's more."
He scanned it quickly and then looked at her, raising one eyebrow querulously. Instantly, Louisa felt a constriction in her chest and flush of warmth, starting somewhere in her abdomen and rising to her face. She stared back at him, for a split second unable to either move or speak. Swallowing to compose herself, she said:
"Umm, right, well her car blew up on the way to the station."
Martin felt his heart begin to race.
"What?" He barked, a little too sharply for Louisa's liking. "What do you mean it blew up? Is she alright? Where is she?"
"Martin! Don't growl at me!" Louisa countered vigorously. "If you'd actually just give me a chance to explain, I would!"
She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head at him reproachfully, thinking with amusement that she was now the scold and he was suddenly the child, albeit an enormous and imposing one who was stubbornly refusing to look at her.
"Martin?" She castigated
Haughtily, he squared his shoulders, lifted his chin and looked down at her. A conversation with Louisa was like trying to pick mercury up with your fingers.
"Go on." He said.
Taking a deep breath, she repeated her conversation with Mrs. Norton in detail, relaying the events of the morning as far as she knew them, where Joan had now gone, and what her plans for the day were. As Martin listened to her intently, she was relieved to see his expression gradually soften, and he seemed visibly to relax.
"Right." He said decisively, when she had finished. "Good. Ummm, then I need to eat."
He took a couple of steps over to the bench and retrieved an apron, inspecting it for cleanliness before slipping it over his head. He filled a pan with water and placed on the cooker to boil. Then, without turning around, he spoke to her, and his voice was low and almost warm.
"Louisa, was the burnt toast sufficient, or would you like to join me in a boiled egg?"
She glanced up at him in surprise.
"If I say no," she replied thoughtfully, "Then I know I'll just regret it later when I'm watching you eat yours."
"So, that is a yes?"
"Umm, yes. Yes please."
"Right. Good decision." He said, and placed two eggs into the water.
"What shall I do?"
Martin turned and looked at her over his shoulder and she was sure there was the hint of a smile on his face.
"Well, not the toast, obviously." he said.
"I got distracted." She replied defensively, pulling a face at him and stomping over to the table, where she threw herself dramatically into a chair.
"Don't sit down." He said. "I need you to watch the eggs for me. When they come to the boil, turn the element off, and leave them for one minute. If I am not back by then, remove them from the water. One minute only. Do you think you can, aaah, manage that Louisa?"
She laughed at him disbelievingly. Even cooking breakfast was a matter of planning and precision for Martin and she recalled the chaotic mornings she had shared with her dad, and even her mum before she deserted them both. It was a stark contrast. In fact, every situation they'd shared in that pokey cottage had pretty much been bedlam. The emotions were always extreme; the moment always potentially volatile; screaming and fighting, or shrieking with laughter. She remembered her mum and dad making up; their passionate embraces and vehement declarations of love inevitably followed by another hole punched in the wall or another pane of glass smashed in the door. Always too much, or not enough. Crates of whisky but no bread or milk. A big win on an outsider at Doncaster or a busted flush in some dodgy after hours pub. The turmoil hadn't punctuated their lives, it was their lives, she realised and, involuntarily, she shivered at the memory.
It was strange that watching Martin, and his sure, decisive movements as he carefully folded the tea-towel and placed it over the handle of the cooker, was somehow reassuring. She couldn't imagine him ever presiding over disorder or disarray, or having an empty fridge, or a sink full of dirty dishes. Even as recently as last week, she'd watched as her dad dropped the morning's post into the rubbish bin without even opening any of it and it had left her feeling anxious and with an unhappy sense of foreboding. As hard as she tried, she could never envisage Martin being irresponsible or unreliable, and she was hit by an uncomfortable surge of disappointment in both her parents, suddenly feeling very conscious that she still lacked so many life skills, especially now that she was effectively on her own.
"If you're asking me if I can boil an egg, Martin, the answer is yes." she said flatly.
If Martin did notice her deflated tone, he made no comment, merely placing the lid carefully onto the saucepan. He reached into his trouser pocket, retrieved his car key and, without saying a word, disappeared out of the back door.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence." She muttered and wandered despondently across to the cooker.
The realisation that Edith was well and truly gone went some way to restoring the spring in the young man's step. Despite his usual stoic appearance and apparent gravitas, he actually was experiencing rather an unusual sensation; he felt almost light, in both heart and in limb. He jogged effortlessly up the small incline to where his car was parked and opened the boot. He was surprised that his weekend's reading material wasn't with his things and he assumed that he must have left his BMJ's upstairs in his room. Unfazed, he retrieved the shoebox and sat it carefully on the bonnet of the car. Before returning to the kitchen, he unlocked the car, fiddled with the glovebox key for a moment before, finally, it popped open. Carefully he lifted out Louisa's journal and slipped it into the police evidence bag which was still lying, neatly folded, in the foot well. Tucking it gently under his arm, he secured his car, clasped the shoebox gently to his chest and walked briskly back down the path.
Inside, Louisa leaned morosely back against the kitchen bench, in her familiar pose of defiance; arms folded across her chest, jaw firmly set, glaring out at an unfair world from underneath her long, protective fringe.
"Just turned them off." She said dejectedly, not taking her eyes from the clock as she watched the second hand count down the minute.
"Toast's on." She added.
"Well done." Martin said with just a hint of condescension."I can take over now, if you like."
"Yup." She replied flatly, knowing full well that he would take over regardless of whether she liked it or not.
He eyed her cautiously, unsure of the reason for her sudden outward appearance of despondency. He had only been gone two or three minutes at most and was, once again, bewildered by her change of mood. Nervously, he cleared his throat.
"Louisa. With, ummm, with everything that happened, I omitted to mention...I should have told you, aaah, your journal. It has been returned and I have it here. Last night, for safekeeping...I, umm, I locked it the glovebox of my car."
Tentatively he held out the bag toward her and was both surprised and relieved to see her gloomy expression transformed instantly by a broad, dazzling, beatific smile.
"Martin!" She gasped, letting out a little squeal of delight. "Oh my god, you are so amazing, thank you!"
She took the bag from his hand, and peered into it, even doing a couple of jumps on the spot as her relief at her journal's return overcame her. Looking back up at him, she grinned and, alarmed at what she might do next in her heightened state of gratitude, he quickly retreated to the safety of the cooker. As he turned his back though, Martin couldn't help thinking that if was not often, if ever, he heard his name used in a sentence as enthusiastic and appreciative as the one Louisa had just uttered. With a wry, imperceptible smile, he turned his attention back to the eggs.