“Maybe you’re right,” she had conceded finally. “But that doesn’t change the way I feel about the Buffalo. I just feel deeply sorry for my father. He hides his unhappiness behind a superficial jolliness. Good-natured and gung-ho, that’s Daddy. A tipple at six, dinner at eight thirty, glass of whisky and a cigar in his study at ten. He never wastes a cigar but smokes it right until the very end. Until it nearly burns his fingers. He protects himself in the structure of routine. Always the same three-piece tweed suit during the day, smoking jacket and slippers at night. Sunday lunch in the dining room, Sunday dinner in the hall by the fire. Cook makes the same roast every Sunday, though it’s always something special when the vicar comes for lunch. Leg of lamb or beef, steamed pudding or apple crumble. He goes for a walk in the evening after arriving on the six thirty train from London, takes a stick and surveys his estate. Chats to the manager, discusses pheasants and tree planting. Everything is always the same, nothing changes. Nothing to scare the horses. Then I found the picture he never expected to see again. I dragged him back into his past. Poor man, he doesn’t know what to do with me. He’ll talk to you, though, I’m sure. He’s a man’s man and you’re his sort.”
Fitz hadn’t known whether that was a good thing to be. In Alba’s eyes it probably wasn’t. Viv had described Thomas Arbuckle as an “old duffer,” but if he had been a young man in the war he’d only be in his fifties. Hardly the twilight years.
Fitz withdrew from the window and his thoughts when Alba appeared in the doorway. She wore a simple pair of slacks and a beige corduroy jacket over a white cashmere turtleneck. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail, leaving the long fringe to brush her forehead and cheekbones. She didn’t bother to excuse the mess. “I’m ready. I’ve put on my most conservative clothes so I match you.” Fitz could have taken offense had he not already considered himself conservative. However, once again her comment only emphasized the stark differences between them and the fact that she could not possibly fancy him. But he wasn’t disappointed, for they were friends, at least, and that was better than being shut out in the drizzle.
“You look lovely,” he said, running his eyes up and down her body in appreciation.
She grinned broadly. “I like it when you do that,” she said, turning and walking toward the door.
“Do what?”
“Look me up and down like that. I can feel your eyes like a pair of hands. They tickle.”
It was warm outside. The spring breeze danced up the river, causing it to ripple and roll. Gulls floated on the air, their cries punctuating the dull drone of traffic.
“Now, I hope you have a car to match your image. Not a sports car. Daddy is suspicious of men in sports cars.”
“I have a rather old, dilapidated Volvo.”
“Sounds good to me,” she said, linking her arm through his. “We have to present ourselves as a couple,” she added when he looked at her quizzically.
Alba climbed into the passenger seat, throwing a few books and a manuscript into the back to make room. Besides the literary chaos, it smelled of dogs.
“I didn’t know you had a dog,” she said when he got in and started up the engine.
“Sprout. He’s in the back.”
Alba’s eyes widened. “I hope he’s not a scruffy little rat like Margo’s.”
“He’s a cross between a springer and a pointer.”
“Whatever that means,” she sighed, turning around to take a look. “Oh yes, he’ll do. Thank God he’s a boisterous dog. I do hate yappers.”
“Sprout’s bark is very manly, I assure you.”
“Thank heaven for that, otherwise he’d have to stay behind, unless, of course, he’s willing to eat Margo’s rats for tea.”
“Don’t listen to her, Sprout. She’s not really so hardhearted.” Sprout could be heard sighing patiently in the back.
“You wait, you’ll understand when you see them. The Buffalo likes things she can carry around under her arm.”
“Not your father, I hope!”
Alba giggled and nudged him playfully. “You fool! She’s strong but not Hercules!”
They chatted all the way down the A30. When they turned off the main road and began to thread their way down narrow winding lanes, the countryside revealed itself in all its glory. The woods were bursting into life with the warmer weather, vibrating with a bright, phosphorescent green that reminded Fitz of Viv’s little dishes. The air was sweet and sugar-scented and birds flew overhead or perched on telephone wires, taking breaks from the rigorous task of building nests. They stopped talking and looked about them. The gentle stillness of the land was a refreshing antidote to the busy, bustling city. It calmed the soul. Made one breathe deeply, from the bottom of one’s chest. Fitz felt his shoulders relax and his head empty of all the irksome things he had to do at work. Even Alba looked calmer. With the green land as a backdrop she looked younger, as if they had left not only the city behind but her urbane sophistication as well.