‘You’re not going to tell me, are you?’ I say, feeling disappointed.
‘I will, but not right this minute. It’s a long complicated story, and I’m hungry.’
‘Me too. Are we waiting for the bread to cook?’
‘No, that’s for the next few days.’ Dain goes over to an old-fashioned bread bin and pulls out half a loaf of bread. ‘Something I prepared earlier,’ he says. ‘It’s all about forward planning when you’re not relying on modern conveniences.’
He hands me the loaf and a bread knife. ‘Can you hack off a few doorsteps from that please? And there’s some butter there to spread on it.’
‘Ah, I now see why you make such man-sized sandwiches.’
‘Exactly.’ He turns his attention to the stove and lifts the lid on a cast-iron pot that’s been bubbling on the stove. ‘We can have this leftover meat stew with it.’
A delicious aroma wafts from the pot, and my stomach rumbles. I hastily start sawing into the bread in anticipation. This Victorian cooking lark might not be so bad after all, and Dain seems to know what he’s doing. He also visits Joelle’s café for lunch, so I know he doesn’t entirely rely on rustic home cooking.
I lather a slice of bread with butter and think about Joelle. His insistence on living in a bygone eramustbe why they broke up. She couldn’t handle it. Can’t say I blame her, but it’s a pity they couldn’t find a workaround.
‘Don’t you get lonely living like this?’ I ask before I can stop myself.
Dain keeps stirring, and I think he’s not going to reply. Then he says in a flat tone, ‘I did have someone, but we parted ways a couple of years ago.’
‘I know. Joelle, I met her in the café. She said she was your ex.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he says, but I can tell by his shoulders hunching that he doesn’t want to talk about it.
Gosh, it must have been a bad break-up if he can hardly bear the mention of her name. Does he still have feelings for her?
Silently, he reaches into the dresser next to the stove and brings a couple of plates over to the table. I gather the subject of his ex-girlfriend is now also closed. I got too close to the bone. It’s strange—he’s so open about some things and locked up tight about others, though I suppose I am being nosey.
‘Are you OK eating in here? It’s warmer than the parlour since I haven’t lit the fire in there yet,’ he says.
‘Sure.’
He starts wiping the table down, and I move a thin book out of the way. Its light-blue cover is sprinkled with flour.
‘Don’t tell me you’re learning German like Emily did while baking bread?’ I joke.
‘No.’
‘I don’t believe you.’ I check the inside of it, and it’s an exercise book of German verb conjugations. Dain looks at me sheepishly, and I can’t help laughing, albeit with a tinge of hysteria. Oh my god, he’s in full Brontë immersion!
Chapter 17
The difference between Miss Brontë and me is that
she puts all her naughtiness into her books.
(Elizabeth Gaskell,The Life of Charlotte Brontë)
Hours turn into days. Days turn into weeks, and before I know it, I’ve been living at Dain’s for six of them. Going from a hotel to a house with amenities from the dark ages takes some getting used to. But surprisingly, Dain was right. Once I got my head around it and gave myself permission to embrace the full-immersion experience, I started enjoying it a little. When else am I going to get the chance to live in the same conditions that the Brontës would have (albeit with a laptop and mobile phone)?
But I can’t lie. I miss the convenience of stepping into a hot shower. Washing now involves stripping first thing after I get up, a quick going-over with a wet washcloth and soap, another rinse with the washcloth, and rubbing myself down briskly with a towel, trying not to freeze to death. I haven’t been brave enough to get naked, soap up, and rinse with a jug of warm water in the bath as Dain does because I discovered the door doesn’t have a lock; and although I mostly trust him to knock before he waltzes in, I’m not prepared to risk it.
Some days, my washing routine is more thorough than others. Let’s just say I’ve come to appreciate my ‘natural oils’. However, my hair is getting ratty, so I probably need to do the full bath ritual soon. Neither Dain nor I have had one yet due to the hassle of heating the water and filling the tub. But I’m determined to try it, even if my arms fall off from lugging buckets of water upstairs. Meanwhile, I’m putting my hair into a messy bun and using dry shampoo. As for clothes, I’m using the launderette in town as I can’t face handwashing. Sometimes Dain asks me if he can add a few shirts too, which makes me smile. I don’t think it’s high on his list of favourite chores.
He much prefers cooking and has shown me how to make the bread. We take turns. I’m much slower than he is, and my bread-making skills leave much to be desired. My first attempt almost caused him to crack a tooth. He said it was ‘delightfully crunchy, but perhaps best dipped in soup’.
Cooking has never been one of my strengths, and Klint hated it too, so we ate out a lot or existed on Pot Noodles if funds were low. I’m jealous of Dain’s ability to whip up all sorts of things on the temperamental Aga. The other day, he made a soufflé since he’s rather into French cooking. It was so delicious and, most importantly, edible that I’m seriously tempted to let him do it all. But I don’t want him to think I’m a shirker, so I’ll persevere.
