“And where did you live before that? Swindon?”
“No, Oxford.” This was starting to feel like a rather laborious job interview. “What about you? I believe you’re new to the village, as well?” he asked, trying to make this more of a conversation than an interrogation.
“Yes, I moved here from Manchester in June.”
“To start a school of ballroom dancing.”
“Yes, a bit daft, I know.”
“Not at all.”
Her mouth curved again, eyes alight. “You don’t think so?”
“Certainly continuing in full-time employment as an accountant is the more fiscally responsible choice,” he allowed.
“Indeed. I told myself I’d give it a year—I’ve got enough savings for that—and then I’d go back to accountancy.” She sighed. “I’m not overly optimistic at the moment, to be honest. I was hoping for more pupils.”
“Perhaps more will register.”
“Perhaps.” Her smile had slid off her face and she looked wistful for a moment, in a way that made Roger want to offer her some sort of comfort or encouragement. The problem was, he had no idea how to do either. “Anyway.” She shrugged off her moment of melancholy like a dog shaking off water as she turned to face him with a purposeful air. “Tell me about yourself.”
A more terrifying question Roger didn’t think he had ever heard. Predictably, his mind blanked.
“Your mother lives in Wychwood,” Lindy prompted.
“Yes.”
“What about your dad? Siblings?”
“I’m an only child, and my father died when I was young. Twelve years old.”
Her face softened in sympathy and sadness. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
He nodded stiffly, because whenever he volunteered this particular bit of information, which was as rarely as possible, it created a certain awkwardness, on top of the awkwardness that was almost certainly already there, and he’d found the best way to deal with it was to simply move on. Then Lindy surprised him.
“My parents both died when I was young, as well,” she said. “Although not as young as that. I was nineteen.” She lapsed into silence as she glanced down at her hands lying flat on the table.
“I’m sorry,” Roger said after a pause. He knew how inadequate those words were, just as he knew there weren’t really any others.
“It was a car accident. They’d been visiting me at university and they were killed in a pile-up on the M6. At least it was quick.”
Roger stared at her, aghast at such a matter-of-fact description of so devastating an event, yet knowing he did the same when it came to talking about his father. “That must have been very difficult,” he said after a few seconds where he struggled to frame his thoughts and was only able to come up with such a massive understatement. “Do you have siblings?”
“No, just me.” She gave a wry smile, touched with bittersweet whimsy. “It’s been just me for a long time.”
“I would have thought…” Roger paused. “You seem the sort of person to have many friends.”
“Well, I do,” Lindy allowed. “I’ve loads of acquaintances, colleagues, casual friends. Heaps and heaps.” She let out a little laugh. “I’m very good at making friends, really.”
“Yes.” He certainly thought she was.
“But when it comes to family…you know people who know you inside and out?” She shook her head. “It really has just been me.”
*
Lindy didn’t usually talk about her parents’ deaths. Fifteen years on and she wanted it to be old news, past history, even though she knew it never truly could be. Did anyone really ever get over the death of their parents? She was certainly trying.
And yet, for some strange reason, Roger Wentworth of all people felt like someone she could talk to—not just the usual chitchat, but the deeper stuff. Despite his stiffness, his somewhat awkward manner, she trusted him. She knew he was honest, and she’d just discovered he might understand, at least a little bit, of what she’d gone through.
“It must have been very difficult,” he said again, the words seeming to be carefully chosen and touchingly heartfelt, “to be all alone in the world, at such a young age.”
“Yes. It was.” Something else she didn’t really talk about. The waitress came with their Cokes then, and Lindy raised hers in a semi-mocking toast before taking a sip. “Really most refreshing,” she said solemnly, and was rewarded with the very tiniest quirk of Roger’s mouth. He could, she realised, make fun of himself, at least a little. The knowledge warmed her insides.
“Did you have relatives to help you, when your parents died?” he asked after a moment.
“Not really. My parents were older when they had me—their surprise blessing. My mother was forty-five, my dad fifty. Their parents had already passed away, and my dad had an older sister who was in a nursing home by the time he died. My mother had a brother, but he emigrated to Australia when I was a kid, and he didn’t even come back for the funeral. I’ve completely lost touch with him.” She shrugged. “I didn’t really miss those kinds of relationships, because I’d never had them.”
“I’m sorry.” Roger shook his head, an expression of frustration flashing across his face. “I don’t know what else to say.”
“I’m not sure there is anything else,” Lindy replied. She leaned her elbows on the table, gazing at him earnestly. “The thing is, in spite of all that, I had the most fantastic childhood.” Roger raised his eyebrows, waiting for more. “My parents both took early retirement when I was six,” Lindy explained. “They wanted to show me the world—and they did. We travelled all over the place, did everything. I saw the Northern Lights, Uluru, the Grand Canyon, the Taj Mahal…” She shook her head in wondering memory at all the adventures she’d shared with her mum and dad—memories she wouldn’t trade for a more normal upbringing, or really, for anything, except perhaps to have them back again.
“We had so much fun. They homeschooled me until I was sixteen, but really they considered life the best education, and so it was. I don’t regret any of it. Not one bit.”
“Goodness.” Roger looked both impressed and a bit startled by her words. Lindy knew her childhood had been utterly unconventional, and probably utterly unlike his, but she’d truly loved every moment of it. “And when you were sixteen?” he asked.
“We came back to our cottage in Derbyshire and I went to Sixth Form.” She grimaced slightly. “After everything I’d experienced, I struggled to fit in and make friends. I suppose that was understandable, considering the circumstances, but it was a bit hard.” Roger nodded in understanding, and Lindy let out a sudden, uncertain laugh. “I don’t actually know why I’m telling you all this. I usually don’t witter on about myself so much.” She shook her head, deciding she really had rabbited on enough. Roger was looking a bit winded by her relentless download of information, and yet it had felt surprisingly good to say it all. She so rarely did. “Anyway, what about you? Were you very close to your dad?”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “Although he was much like me, so we didn’t actually talk all that much.” Lindy smiled at that, and Roger continued, “He was the sort of person you could be silent with, and it didn’t matter. You could just be.”