He shuts the door, and I breathe out in relief. I have so many questions bouncing around in my head that I need a moment to sort them into logical order. I scratch Tabby’s head, and she closes her eyes, purring. ‘I think your owner is a bit cuckoo,’ I tell her. She butts her head against my hand, and it feels like a nod, but I don’t think she’s agreeing with me. Despite my misgivings, Dain’s dedication to the Victorian era has my curiosity piqued as to what else this lifestyle entails. Perhaps he has a house manual quilled in Gothic cursive he can give me?
After I’ve freshened up, I leave Tabby sleeping on my bed and go out to the kitchen. Splashing ice-cold water on my face was tantamount to a slap on both cheeks, so I feel wide awake now.
Thanks to the Aga, the kitchen is warm and lit by half a dozen kerosene lamps, and I feel like I have indeed time-travelled into the past.
Dain is standing at the kitchen table, wearing a dark-blue baker’s apron and levering a lump of pale dough out of a yellow ceramic bowl onto the floured surface. In his white blousy shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he could have stepped out of the pages ofWuthering Heights. However, I can’t imagine any of the male characters choosing to make bread. That was definitely women’s work.
Dain nods at the wooden chair opposite him. ‘Take a seat.’
If you’d told me this morning that I’d be sitting in Dain’s kitchen, watching him knead dough by lamplight, I would’ve said you were crazy. But here I am. And it is quite soothing to watch, as he continually folds and pushes it with his palms. He has nice hands, large and smooth with long blunt-tipped fingers slightly stained with ink.
‘Are you feeling better about things?’ he asks, sprinkling more flour on the table from a paper bag.
‘Strangely, yes,’ I say. ‘I think Tabby helped. And your note, of course. Where is that, by the way?’
‘In here.’ He taps his apron’s front pocket.
‘Can I have it?’
‘Sure.’ He wipes one of his floury hands on a tea towel, plucks out the note, and hands it over, looking at me quizzically. But I tuck it into the back pocket of my jeans without saying why I want it. I guess if I had to explain, it would be that I need something real to ground me. But really, I want to look over what he wrote again. Is this why women back then kept letters, to pore over in private, analysing each word? Not that I’m going to do that exactly, but it’s nice to have a keepsake.
‘Does your mum visit you?’ I ask, picking up a thread from our meeting in the pub.
‘Sometimes, yes. And she doesn’t mind the set-up, for a few days anyway.’
‘What about your dad? Does he come?’
Dain’s dough kneading starts again briskly. ‘My parents are divorced. Mum’s happily remarried, living in Chester and bringing up another man’s kids from his third marriage. My father and I are ... estranged. He doesn’t have a part to play in my life, or more that he chooses not to have a part to play.’ Dain punches the spongy dough with his fist as if he’s seeing someone’s face in his mind’s eye. I know how he feels.
‘My dad isn’t in the picture either.’Klint took up the father figure mantle, and look how that turned out.
‘Tell me more about living here.’ I eye the ancient-looking bone-handled knife that he’s using to score the top of the dough. ‘That knife looks authentic.’
He grins at me. ‘It is.’
Fashioning the dough into a neat oblong, Dain places it on a greased and floured tray while telling me about his fascination for antique shops and the thrill of discovering a knife or razor or fountain pen from the period. ‘This area is full of Victorian artefacts. Things get passed down through the generations and end up being sold for a quick buck when people have a cleanout of their relatives’ possessions. Someone like me is much more appreciative than they are, and the quality and workmanship of the artefacts is so much better than today’s cheap knock-offs.’
‘However, you do use a mobile phone,’ I point out. ‘So you’re not completely denying yourself the perks of twenty-first century living.’
‘That’s for no other reason than I don’t want to completely cut myself off from society. I’m not that perverse. The parsonage needs to contact me about shifts, and my mum messages me. I sent her a letter once, and she complained she couldn’t read it. She prefers to WhatsApp.’
He opens the oven door and quickly closes it again. ‘That’s hot enough.’ But I’m not sure how he knows as there’s no temperature gauge. Maybe feeling your eyebrows singe is indication enough?
‘How do you charge your phone, though?’ I persist. ‘I don’t want to be completely cut off from society either, and I need my laptop.’
‘I’ve got a few power banks. I charge them at the parsonage and bring them back here. They don’t mind. You’re welcome to use one.’
‘Right.’
Ironically, he’s charging them at the Brontë home, which is now more modern than his. Sigh. But I understand why he volunteers there. It’s like an extension of his lifestyle to keep fully immersed in the period. But what does he do for money?
‘So your power bills are non-existent, of course. But what about council tax, insurance, and maintenance? And antique buying ... How do you pay for all that?’
‘I have a side gig.’ He picks up the tray with the bread and pops it into the oven without elaborating. But by now, I’m extremely curious.
‘Are you an secret agent or something?’ Well, he is well groomed. It’s not unfeasible.
Dain lets out a bark of laughter and turns to face me, merriment dancing across his face. ‘A secret agent! I wish! I’d probably get paid more. But no, I’m not a secret agent.’ He gazes at me and presses his lips together.
