Chapter 2: A Time That Suits

The lining of his coat pocket came out cold and empty. Eli Finch pushed it back with his fingers, then tried the other pocket, although he had already looked there on the stairs. His hat was not in his sleeve either. Standing inside his own front door, he remembered taking it off in the piano room and tucking it behind him on the chair.

He could leave it until Thursday. Then he pictured telling Ada Mercer why he had come out without it, and having to explain that he had known where it was all along.

He put his shoes back on.

Without the tool bag, the journey felt oddly unofficial. He walked to the stop with his hands in his pockets and took the bus back along the route they had just travelled. At the temporary stop he stepped around the water gathered beside the kerb. The house was easy to find again; he remembered the stiff gate and the place where the path narrowed beside a shrub. He pressed the bell, rubbed his bare ears, and heard footsteps inside.

Nora Bell opened the inner door. Her sleeves were pushed up, and a wet patch darkened the front of her jumper.

“Your hat.”

“I think I left it on the chair.”

“You did. I was going to ring.”

She disappeared into the house, leaving him with the storm door held against his shoulder. Through the gap he could see the edge of the dining table. The bread plate had gone. A folded towel lay where it had been, with crumbs caught in its creases.

She returned holding the hat by its turned-up rim.

“I put it out so I wouldn’t forget.”

He thanked her and pulled it on. The wool was warm from indoors. He was already moving his foot back toward the step when she said, “You got home all right?”

“Yes. I only noticed when I got in.”

“And she’s home?”

He nodded.

Nora Bell took hold of the storm door above his shoulder. He stepped out from under it, but she did not let it shut.

“Thursday still suits you, does it?”

“After school.”

“Good. That’s what we said.”

Her fingers shifted along the metal edge. He waited, feeling the porch cold come up through the soles of his shoes. It seemed possible that she had finished speaking and was waiting for him to leave. He took another small step.

“If she says it doesn’t need doing,” she said, “we’d still like her to come.”

He looked back.

“The piano?”

“If it settles. Or if we stop noticing it. I wouldn’t want her to think she’d made a wasted journey.”