Mr Cadmus. Peter Ackroyd

      ‘Not at all.’

      ‘Mr Cadmus. Theodore Cadmus. Theo.’

      ‘Miss Swallow.’ She put out her hand to avoid being kissed.

      ‘These are for you, dear lady. The smallest possible token—’

      ‘Oh, that is too kind, really.’

      ‘May I?’

      ‘Yes,’ she added, with a hint of nervousness. ‘Do. Come in.’

      He inched his way along the hallway into the front parlour. ‘Oh, this is delightful. What sweet ornaments and bouquets.’ Miss Swallow had a taste for chintz and porcelain. ‘And who is this gorgeous creature?’

      ‘Timothy.’

      He picked up the marmalade cat and, much to the animal’s discomfiture, kissed it on its nose. ‘Extra special.’

      ‘May I offer you a glass of sherry, Mr Cadmus? Or wine perhaps?’

      ‘We will drink our fill of golden sunshine. One of your national poets tells us this.’

      ‘I’m afraid I only have a Beaujolais from Tesco. Or a Moselle.’

      ‘I am at your disposal.’ The cat, showing signs of struggle, was put down. ‘The red and the white are for me equally delicious.’

      So she brought out the Beaujolais, on the very sound principle that the bottle was unopened, and made a good impression on her visitor. She suggested a chair. She did not know quite what to say to him. ‘Will you be with us long?’

      ‘Oh, an eternity. I have come to stay. After a storm-tossed life I am come into harbour.’ Whatever could he mean? Stormtossed? It sounded rather exciting.

      ‘Where do you come from, Mr Cadmus?’ She only just remembered his name. ‘If I may ask?’

      ‘My very good lady, I come from a small island in the Mediterranean. It will mean nothing to you.’

      ‘I suppose not.’

      ‘We are small. We are under two hundred persons.’

      ‘Rather like Little Camborne.’

      ‘Oh no, dear lady. Here you have all the blessings of a lovely land. And your lovely hedges.’

      ‘Hard to prune, I’m afraid.’

      ‘And yet so beautiful, I could weep. Here. Look. There is a tear.’

      Miss Swallow looked alarmed. She wondered if the wine had gone to his head.

      ‘Did you have a difficult journey, Mr Cadmus?’

      ‘I beg your pardon, madam?’

      ‘From that place you mentioned. The island.’

      ‘No, I came here by way of London, where I have good friends. Travel is nothing to me. I take it in my stride.’

      That was a mark in his favour. Miss Swallow admired enterprising men. ‘And why did you choose us?’

      ‘Little Camborne? I came upon it in a map. Just the tiniest dot in a map of the county of Devonshire. My father had maps of all the counties of England. He was an Anglo-style. Is that the word? And I said to myself, this will be my home. I will call myself a Little Cambornean.’

      She laughed. ‘What an extraordinary man you are. I don’t know what to make of you.’

      ‘Make nothing of me, dear lady. Take me as I am. I am your devoted servant.’ At that he rose to leave. ‘But we will have all the time in the world to exchange reminiscences. I hope this will be the first of many happy occasions.’ He seemed pleased to change the subject. ‘And my other charming neighbour?’

      ‘Miss Finch.’

      ‘Finch and Sparrow. A nest of singing birds! We will make delightful music together.’

      ‘Swallow.’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’ He looked quickly at his glass.

      ‘I am Miss Swallow, not Sparrow. Not that Sparrow isn’t a lovely name. It just doesn’t happen to be mine. May I?’ She took up the bottle.

      ‘Oh no. I must pay my respects to our dear neighbour before it grows too late.’ He gave a last admiring look at the room, taking in the ormolu clock, the figurines of shepherds and shepherdesses, the china cats, the miniature portraits, the framed photographs, the painted boxes, the small jugs and vases, and all the other mementoes of an uneventful life. ‘You have a delicate taste, madam. I salute you.’

      After she had closed the front door she returned, flushed and excited, to her armchair where she went through the conversation word for word.

      A short while after Mr Cadmus came up to the cottage of Miss Finch. She was at the door almost as soon as he had raised the knocker, but she waited for several seconds before opening it. She did not wish to be seen to have hurried. She had of course observed him entering the cottage of her neighbour, and had timed the length of his visit to Miss Swallow. She was naturally irritated that he had chosen to visit her friend first, but she was determined not to let her annoyance show. ‘Who is it?’

      ‘Your new neighbour, my dear lady. Mr Cadmus.’

      She opened the door with a flourish. ‘Delighted. Come in, Mr—’

      ‘Cadmus.’

      ‘What an unusual name.’ She led him into her sitting room overlooking the front garden. It was not filled with clutter or with bric-a-brac, as he had expected, and instead gave the impression of simplicity or even severity. The walls were painted white, and a portrait of a young woman hung in a frame of green and gold. A sideboard of highly polished oak was matched by a circular table of the same material upon which stood a tall and stately vase of the deepest scarlet.

      ‘This is most enchanting,’ he said. ‘I see you are a woman of discernment.’

      ‘Well, I have been complimented before.’

      ‘Of course you have. I hope you will find these to your taste.’ He presented her with a box of chocolates subtly different from the one he had given to Miss Swallow; it was slimmer and longer.

      ‘And I do have a sweet tooth.’

      ‘I had hoped so.’

      ‘Sit where you like, Mr Cadmus.’ The chairs were in a modern style but, as he discovered, surprisingly comfortable. ‘I think mulled wine is best at this time of year. I make my own.’ She returned with two large silver goblets. ‘Now I need to know all about you. I don’t stand on ceremony. Where are you from?’

      ‘I come from an island, dear lady, in the Mediterranean—’

      ‘That is very interesting. What island precisely?’

      ‘The name would mean nothing to you.’

      ‘Let me be the judge of that.’

      ‘Caldera.’ He said the word very quickly.

      ‘I don’t know it.’

      ‘We are small. We are under two hundred persons.’

      ‘Rather like Little Camborne.’

      ‘Oh no, dear lady. Here you have all the blessings of lovely land. And your glorious gardens.’

      ‘Hard to keep up, I’m afraid.’

      ‘And yet so beautiful. I could weep.’

      After he had gone she wondered whether she should telephone Miss Swallow. No, she could wait. She wanted to savour the exhilaration of this short meeting. For a while she sat with her head back, staring at the ceiling. I never asked him his first name, she realised.

      Chapter 2

      Montmorency