“Can I speak to someone in charge, please? Perhaps someone who lives here.”
His smile widens. “You can speak to me.”
I hate this kind of thing; God, how I hate it. Attention from men who don’t even know me.
Crossing my arms tightly over my chest, I ask, “Are you the owner?”
“Hardly. But I live here.”
What does that mean?
Oh wait, didn’t Welsh Hagrid say there were tenants? Suddenly, I wishhewere still here instead. He never even tried to flirt and he seemed kind and safe. Yet, I never even asked his name.
Come to think of it, he didn’t ask my name either.
“Can I make you a coffee?” Flirty builder ups the ante by taking a step towards me.
I take a step back away. “Do you know where I might find William Jones?”
Just then a door behind him opens, and a woman comes through, a blonde little girl holding her hand.
The builder steps aside and moves the ladder to make room for her. “Haneen, this lady is looking for the professor.”
She turns a cheerful face towards me. “Hello?”
Haneen, if I’ve heard the name right, seems much more at home here than this man. She’s dressed casually in mustard corduroy dungarees and a maroon jumper. Her chestnut hair is up in a messy ponytail. Could she be the professor’s wife? If I had to guess, I’d say mid to late thirties. Too young, but who knows? And the little girl? Does she resemble the man in the picture? Impossible to say. “Are you his wife?”
“Me?” she laughs. “No. God, no. the professor is a bachelor. He’s away on a research trip to Ireland. Can I help?”
Ireland? The words hit me like a door slamming in my face. “When is he expected back?”
“Not sure.”
Meaning…a week, a month, a year? They don’t seem to know much between them, which leaves me at a dead end. Now what do I do?
Haneen watches me for a moment then asks, “Would you like a cup of tea?”
I look around, but there’s nothing apart from the builder, the ladder and the smell of turpentine. “Erm…” is all I can say.
“Come through to the kitchen.” She ushers me toward a door down the hall.
Not knowing what else to do, I follow.
The kitchen is a big, toasty-warm country canteen with trestle tables, benches and crates of potatoes and squashes stacked against one wall. The warmth comes from the massive wood-burning Aga at one end. Haneen leads me to one of the tables.
“Have you come far?” she asks as she helps the little girl into a chair.
“London.”
“Heavens!” She looks up surprised. “That’s what, four or five hours?”
“Yes. I left at half five.”
I watch her go to the Belfast sink and fill the kettle. She moves like someone not only at home but also in charge.
“Have you even had breakfast? Sit.” she adds when she notices me standing uncertain in the middle of the kitchen. “Henrietta is my daughter. And you are…?”
“Leonie, Leonie Henderson.”
