I press on into the void. ‘Did your aunt know anything about it?’
Dain’s reply is to take out his fob watch and check it furtively. ‘Sorry. This is an interesting tangent, and I hate to cut it short, but I should be getting back.’ He smiles at me, yet it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
‘But what about your other notes? You wrote so much.’ I gesture at his pad, which he’s tucking inside an inner coat pocket.
‘That’s some writing I’m doing,’ he says, not sounding overly keen to talk about it.
But I persist, remembering that he ‘dabbles’. ‘Is it poetry?’
‘It’s nothing,’ he replies abruptly.
‘Why are you always so mysterious?’ I can’t help saying.
Dain’s eyes narrow. ‘Me? You’re the most mysterious person I’ve ever met!’
I stare at him, unsure why he’s getting so riled up.
‘I sat in this very seat and told you stuff about my life, and you didn’t offer anything in return. I knownothingabout you. It’s like you’ve dropped in from outer space, and I can’t ...’ He stops, breathing heavily.
‘Can’t what?’
‘Never mind. I should go.’ Dain gives me a tight smile and holds out his hand, and I shake it mutely.
‘Bye, Lizzy. Sorry if I wasn’t much help with inspiring a research topic, but maybe the Brontës aren’t where your interests lie.’
I take a deep shaky breath when he’s gone, feeling like my insides have been dug out with a spoon. I thought we were on friendly terms. It appears we’re not.
Call me sentimental, but after I leave the pub, I’m on the verge of tears. That’s not how I wanted our last meeting to go. But I wasn’t expecting him to lay into me like that. What was he expecting? My life story on a platter? Believe me, he wouldn’t want to hear it.
I need to compose myself before I go back to the hotel, so I sneak into the church and hang out there for a while. An exploratory walk leads me to a gold plaque on the floor at the back of the nave. It declares that, interred beneath my feet, are several members of the Brontë family, including Charlotte and Emily. Anne was buried in Scarborough. I send a silent plea to Charlotte to give up her secrets (if she has any).
Afterwards, I wander forlornly around the graveyard that fronts the parsonage, pretending to study the cracked leaning headstones. I’m hoping I might catch a glimpse of Dain—perhaps standing by the door, welcoming a visitor, or leaving from a shift. I can’t quite let him go, yet I’m not brave enough to enter the house and go searching for him after his strop.
Should I have opened up more? Why did he want me to? What would that have achieved?
Eventually, the seeping cold, the damp leaf mulch underfoot, and the dreary grey headstones get to me; and I slink away without having seen him. It’s after 4 p.m. when I trudge up the hotel stairs and plod down the hallway to room 9.
‘Where’ve you been?’ I can tell by the tone of his voice and the scowl marring his forehead that Klint is deeply pissed off.
‘You know I’ve been at lunch. Hello to you too, by the way,’ I say snippily, taking off my jacket.
‘A mighty long lunch!’
‘I had a look around the village since I might not get another chance.’
Klint gets up off the bed and comes over to me. He grasps my chin in his hand and tilts my head so I’m forced to look up at him.
‘You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes. You went back to his place, didn’t you?’
Fuck, not this again. Klint’s obviously been sitting here, stewing; and now I’m getting it in the neck. I twist away from him and feign calm as I sit on the bed to take off my trainers, but my hands are shaking.
‘I didn’t go anywhere with Dain. We talked aboutThe Tenant of Wildfell Hallin the pub. He left, and I checked out some shops.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ he says, his pointy chin jutting out stubbornly.
‘Stop it, Klint.’ I get up and fold some clothes in my suitcase that don’t need folding to give my hands something to do.
‘He likes you. I could tell by the way he was staring at you in the café.’
