The Stranger House

Very fond of black, our Mr Madero, thought Sam. Or perhaps he’d just made a big investment in the colour when he was trying for the priesthood.

She strolled across the road on to the bridge where she paused to peer over the parapet. The Skad was no longer tumbling along like brown coffee flecked with milky foam, but moving much more smoothly with nothing but sun-starts breaking its surface. She watched for a moment then turned to walk on. There he was again, right behind her.

‘You following me, or something?’ she said.

‘No,’ he said, surprised. ‘This is Stanebank, I believe, which I’m reliably informed I need to ascend to reach my destination. It doesn’t look a sensible road to take my car up, even if it got over this bridge without scraping the exhaust.’

‘Why’d you want to drive anyway?’ said Sam. ‘It’s only a step.’

‘So I’ve been told.’

He nodded at her rather curtly and set off. After a few moments, Sam followed, already nibbling her chocolate. He was moving quite quickly but she didn’t doubt her ability to overtake him. Bleeding townie, probably doesn’t feel safe being more than a few yards from his car, she thought.

But as the track steepened and she came up close behind him, she detected a slight unevenness in his gait. Mrs Appledore said he’d been ill and the poor bastard was definitely favouring his left leg. Her own bruised hip gave a twinge as if in sympathy. She saw him switch the briefcase, which looked quite heavy, from one hand to the other as if to adjust his balance. All at once her plan to move smoothly by him, offering a nod as curt as his own, seemed pretty mean-spirited.

She fell into step alongside him and said, ‘Great to see the sun, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is,’ he said.

He spoke evenly but she thought she detected an effort not to let her see he was breathing hard.

She said, ‘Like a bit of choc?’

He glanced at the bar and said, ‘You did not get enough toast for breakfast?’

‘Yeah, plenty. You were counting?’

‘I tried but I lost count,’ he said gravely.

The bastard was taking the piss! At least it meant he was human.

As if regretting the lapse, he went on quickly, ‘But thank you, no. It looks too dark for me. I prefer milk, English style.’

‘You do? I’d have guessed you’d have gone for black and bitter.’

‘Why so?’

‘I don’t know. The car. The gear you wear.’

‘I see. By the same token you should perhaps be eating a half-ripe lemon.’

Another joke?

Before she could pick her response he went on, ‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to imply your garments are anything other than attractive. Perhaps however we both err towards the episematic.’

‘Sorry, you’ve lost me.’

‘A zoological term referring to the use of colour or markings to enable recognition within a species.’

‘Like I’m telling the world I’m Australian? Why not? And what are you telling the world? That you run errands for God?’

She’s been talking to our landlady, he guessed.

‘There are worse jobs. I understand you are trying to track down some ancestor here in Illthwaite, Miss Flood. That must be fascinating, discovering your origins.’

Letting her know that he’d been brought up to speed too.

‘More frustrating than fascinating so far,’ she said.

‘Things not going well? Will it trouble you a lot if your quest comes to nothing?’

‘No chance of that,’ she declared.

‘You’re very confident. It’s not given to us to know everything.’

‘You reckon?’ she said, detecting a sermonizing note in his voice. ‘Why not? There’s no such word as unknowable. We must know, we shall know.’

‘That sounds suspiciously like a quotation.’

‘You’re right. David Hilbert, German mathematician.’

‘Interesting. I prefer, for now we know in part, but then we shall know even as we are known. St Paul.’

‘How was his maths?’

‘Better than mine, I suspect,’ he said. ‘He did say, Prove all things. Hold fast that which is good. How’s that for a mathematician?’

She considered then said, ‘I like it. And there was a mathematical Paul who said that God’s got a special book in which He records all the most elegant proofs.’

‘There you are then,’ he said, with a pleased smile. ‘It’s good to know our two Pauls had God in common.’

‘Not so sure about that,’ she said. ‘Mine was a Hungarian called Erdos. He usually called God SF, which stood for the Supreme Fascist.’

That wiped the smile from his face.

‘You don’t sound as if you approve of God, Miss Flood,’ he said.

‘I approve of mine. Don’t have a lot of time for yours,’ she said.

He looked taken aback by her frankness.

He said, ‘What form does your God take, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Why should I mind? If you really want to know something, asking’s the only way to find out. So let’s see. I’d say my God is the last prime number.’

He did not respond to her definition, perhaps because he was pondering it, more likely she thought complacently because he didn’t want to reveal he didn’t know what she was talking about. Or maybe, she thought with a bit more compassion, it was merely because he needed all his breath to maintain an even pace up the hill whose steepening gradient was testing her bruises. But she didn’t have far to go. A long low whitewashed house had come into view. At right angles to it stood a taller building, unpainted and windowless, with a broad chimney at the furthermost end from which issued the column of smoke Sam had observed earlier. Presumably this was the forge or smithy which gave the house its name.

A rough driveway to the house curved off the road. There was no formal gateway but the entrance was marked by a huge slab of sandstone on which was carved THE FORGE with underneath it in smaller letters Lasciate ogni ricchezza voi ch’entrate.