What kind of a …?

What kind of …?

‘Oh and before it slips my mind – would you be so kind as to have a little chat with the uptight stick of a man who’s tenantin’ that cottage of yours?’ she asks. ‘What’s he go by again? Mr Hunn? Mr Hick?’

‘Mr Huff,’ I automatically correct her. ‘A little chat about what, exactly?’

Oh please, please, please, please don’t let anybody have told her about the photographs!

‘About gettin’ some proper access to the shrine, of course!’ she answers, indignant. ‘He set a cold hose on the lighting engineer earlier. A shockin’ poor show, it was.’

I begin to breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

‘An’ about gettin’ me a quick peek at them old photographs what he got,’ she adds, almost nonchalant.

‘Sorcha?’

It’s the sound-woman, Claudia, who is suddenly hard upon us, grey, fluffy appendage waggling ominously as she walks. ‘Sorcha? Bart says the pebble scene might work better if you take your pumps off first. Maybe string them around your neck with the ribbons?’

I promptly turn and flee, hands firmly plastered over my face again.

‘Oh come on, Carla!’ Sorcha yells after me, outraged. ‘Where’s your … your sense of adventure, woman?’

Mr Barrow has been stationed by the gate in his new role as Official Guardian of the aforementioned (and offending) hose. ‘Did you tell Sorcha about the photographs?’ I demand, but I’ve already charged on past before he can compose himself to answer. I find Mr Huff sitting on the back porch bench, feet up on a stool, knitting. There is no physical evidence here of a man on the cusp of some major pulmonary event. He appears perfectly relaxed and at his ease.

‘Ah, Miss Hahn!’ He smiles. ‘At last! And fully dressed, to boot!’

‘Somebody told Sorcha Jennett about the photos,’ I all but explode.

‘Sore …?’

‘Sorcha Jennett. She knows about the photographs! She wants to see them. She probably wants to feature them in the film she’s making. Which means that Channel 4 will also want to use them in the documentary they’re making about Sorcha’s film.’

Short pause.

‘Hard cheese.’ Mr Huff shrugs.

‘It’s Orla’s birthday in two days,’ I run on. ‘I’m sorry – I should have thought to warn you – people often like to visit the shrine to pray and pay homage at around this time. Some come from really long distances. A couple of years ago we had a woman all the way from New South Wales. Sorcha will definitely want access. There’ll be no getting rid of her for the next three days at the very least.’

Mr Huff just knits.

‘There’s no point in trying to refuse her access,’ I persist.

‘Well there is a point if you don’t actually want her to gain access,’ Mr Huff avers.

I ponder the awful logic of this statement while over his shoulder (in the middle of the dining-room rug) I see the tiny rabbit, sitting quietly on some old newspaper under the upturned mesh fireguard from the sitting room.