‘I’m almost positive it was in the newspapers I saw them,’ Billy said. ‘I’ll think of it in a second. I’m sure I will.’
There is nothing more tantalizing than a thing like this that lingers just outside the borders of one’s memory. He hated to give up.
‘Now wait a minute,’ he said. ‘Wait just a minute. Mulholland … Christopher Mulholland … wasn’t that the name of the Eton schoolboy who was on a walking tour through the West Country, and then all of a sudden …’
‘Milk?’ she said. ‘And sugar?’ ‘Yes, please. And then all of a sudden …’
‘Eton schoolboy?’ she said. ‘Oh no, my dear, that can’t possibly be right, because my Mr Mulholland was certainly not an Eton schoolboy when he came to me. He was a Cambridge undergraduate. Come over here now and sit next to me and warm yourself in front of this lovely fi re. Come on. Your tea’s all ready for you.’
She patted the empty place beside her on the sofa, and she sat there smiling at Billy and waiting for him to come over.
He crossed the room slowly and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She placed his teacup on the table in front of him.
‘There we are,’ she said. ‘How nice and cosy this is, isn’t it?’
Billy started sipping his tea. She did the same. For half a minute or so, neither of them spoke. But Billy knew that she was looking at him. Her body was half turned toward him, and he could feel her eyes resting on his face, watching him over the rim of her teacup.