Mr Golightly’s Holiday. Salley Vickers

Mr Golightly. After that it would have been churlish not to offer to share his modest lunch, though, from the way Johnny had wolfed down the rolls, they could have done with the species of miracle which multiplies.

      Johnny had left just after four and by the time Mr Golightly had washed up and checked his e-mails again, dealt with a question from Muriel – it was shocking what the government took you for VAT these days – it was far too late to begin a day’s work. Instead, he strolled up to the Stag and Badger, where he adroitly avoided conversation with Sam Noble by helping out the young poet in the woolly hat again with his crossword.

      Mr Golightly was a crossword addict, a passion he shared with Muriel at the office and over the years he had fallen into the habit of doing The Times crossword with her. One reason for reading the dictionary was to pick up unusual vocabulary which might crop up, since it is well known that crossword setters are of the tribe of fiends. It had once been put to him that in the beginning was the word, and although in his own view things were both simpler and more complicated than that, it was a theory he had sympathy for.

      Long ago Mr Golightly had discovered the principle of synchronicity, the law of meaningful coincidence, and it was following its signs in his business practices which was perhaps responsible for their general success. So he was not too surprised when four down in The Times read, ‘a deprived adolescence provides succour (6)’.

      ‘Uberty!’ said Mr Golightly, blatantly disregarding Luke’s chance to have a shot at the clue.

      Luckily, Luke was not competitive. ‘What’s that? Never heard of it.’

      But at that moment a thickset young man with a loud jacket, exuding a smell of aftershave, equally loud, made his way towards the bar.

      ‘Evening. Wolford, Brian Wolford.’ The man held out a well-cushioned hand. Perhaps it was the overpowering smell of the aftershave but Mr Golightly withheld his own. Rather deliberately he picked up his pint mug.

      ‘Golightly,’ he said. ‘You know Mr Weatherall?’

      ‘You’re the writer chappie,’ said Wolford, ignoring Luke. He made it sound like an accusation.

      ‘My friend is a writer too,’ said Mr Golightly, distinctly.

      But Luke was more interested in the crossword clue. ‘So what’s it mean, then?’

      ‘Funny thing’, said Wolford, ‘I work up at the prison yonder. You come across some pretty weird stuff there. I’ve often thought of writing a book about it. Might drop round your place and have a natter. We’ve all got a novel in us, right?’

      ‘Uberty?’ Mr Golightly said, pointedly addressing only Luke. ‘It’s the milk of human kindness,’ he explained, a trifle vaingloriously.

      The next morning saw Mr Golightly more than ever determined to get the soap opera under way. Staring out of the window for inspiration he saw the horse, Samson, standing four-square in the greensward. Columns of fine rain were blowing in misty battalions across the fields. A kestrel, resting magisterially on pillows of air, circled above the low-falling rain. Kingdom of daylight’s dapple-drawn dawn falcon…Mr Golightly found he was suddenly overcome by a need for coffee.

      But, maddeningly, he had forgotten that the boy had finished off all the milk yesterday.

      Up at the shop the bearded Steve said, with evident satisfaction, ‘Out of milk, I’m afraid, even the long-life. Got soya, though, that do you? Weather’s all right for those as has webbed feet.’

      Mr Golightly did not care for soya in his coffee. He bought a small tin of evaporated milk and returned glumly down the hill. Yesterday’s buoyancy had deserted him. The unwritten soap opera had become an unresponsive lover, one who resists the most ardent attentions.

      Coffee with evaporated milk did not improve his mood but, nevertheless, by 10 a.m. Mr Golightly was once again seated at the gateleg table. Better check the e-mails in case there was something at the office…

      Three messages, heralded by their zippy musical accompaniment, materialised in the ‘Inbox’. One from Muriel, to do with one of the many unpaid accounts they were increasingly having to hassle for, one from a firm selling timeshares in Spain – Mr Golightly paused to wonder how ‘time’, which was indivisible, could conceivably be ‘shared’ – and one from yesterday’s anonymous correspondent:

      

      hath the rain a father?

      

      it asked.

      Mr Golightly did not know what to think. He was too unpractised in the art of e-mail to be able to decipher any clue to the questioner’s identity, and while he didn’t want to reveal that he was the victim of an anonymous correspondent perhaps an e-mail to Mike was called for. He thought a moment then tapped out:

      

      ‘Dear Mike,

      If someone e-mails me how do I know who they are?

      And how do I reply to them?’

      

      He pondered a moment more and then concluded:

      ‘Yours ever, Golightly’.

      Mr Golightly had never had occasion to write to Mike before, or any of the office staff. It made him realise how little he really knew about ordinary channels of communication. Alone in Spring Cottage, with no one by to protect or defend him, he experienced an unfamiliar sense of vulnerability.

      The marching columns of rain had dissolved into a uniform drizzle and Mr Golightly thought he might stretch his legs before starting work. The River Dart was flowing into hills covered today by a modest décolleté of mist and seagulls had winged their way inland suggesting rough weather out at sea. The air was laden with moisture, but Mr Golightly had spent much of his existence under sun-parched skies and the cool wash of English country air was a welcome balm.

      He stood with the mild wetness anointing his face. He had to admit it, he was rattled: not merely by the fact of the phantom e-mailer but by the nature of the message. The references to fatherhood and the coincidence of the rain gave the impression that his unknown correspondent was peering at him knowingly – a feeling that challenged his usual security.

      Back inside, the ‘Inbox’ announced that he had received another e-mail. Opening it, he read:

      boss,

      scroll down and you’ll see name of sender and address – bring cursor to ‘reply’ box, click and space for message will appear – compose message then click on ‘send’ – simple!

      cheers, mox

      There was something unsettling in this communication too. Mike seemed to have dispensed with the normal rudiments of style, with capital letters for example. And then the tone, while not actually disrespectful, was uncharacteristically familiar – that circle and cross by the signature, presumably betokening kisses and so forth. Presumably such endearments were part of e-mail etiquette. In which case, was he expected to do likewise?

      Following Mike’s instructions he scrolled down the anonymous message to find [email protected]. Whoever the someone was, they had an ancient language in common. Nemo; evidently, the someone who was ‘no one’ didn’t wish to be known.

      Slightly trepidatious, Mr Golightly clicked on the ‘Reply’ box and at once a space appeared ready to record his answer. But what in the name of heaven to say to an anonymous correspondent? Mike had mentioned, in passing, the propensity of e-mailers sometimes to get into overintimate communications. Mr Golightly had given this information short shrift – it was hardly the kind of mess he had foreseen himself getting into. But might he not be about to fall into just such a trap?

      And yet he had to admit he was curious about the anonymous mailer.

      He sat motionless for a minute and then found he had typed:

      

      who is this that darkeneth counsel?

      

      Mr