「It』s a mile and a half direct,」 he said, pointing into the woods, 「longer by road.」
We crossed the deer park and had nearly reached the edge of the woods when we heard voices. It was a woman』s voice that swam through the rain, up the gravel drive to her children and over the park as far as us. 「I told you, Tom. It』s too wet. They 』t work when it』s raining like this.」 The children had e to a halt in disappoi at seeing the stationary es and maery. With their sou』westers over their blond heads, I could not tell them apart. The woman caught up with them, and the family huddled for a moment in a brief ferenatoshes.
Aurelius was rapt by the family tableau.
『I』ve seen them before,「 I said. 」Do you know who they are?「
『They』re a family. They live ireet. The house with the swing. Karen looks after the deer here.「
『Do they still hunt here?「
『No. She just looks after them. They』re a nice family.「
Enviously he gazed after them, then he broke his attention with a shake of his head. 「Mrs. Love was very good to me,」 he said, 「and I loved her. All this other stuff—」 He made a dismissive gesture and turoward the woods. 「e o』s go home.」
The family in matoshes, turning back toward the lodge gates, had clearly reached the same decision.
Aurelius and I walked through the woods in silent friendship.
There were no leaves to cut out the light and the branches, blaed by rain, reached dark across the watery sky. Stretg out an arm to push away low branches, Aurelius dislodged extra raindrops to add to those that fell on us from the sky. We came across a fallen tree and leaned over it, staring into the dark pool of rain in its hollow that had softehe rotting bark almost to fur.
Then, 「Home,」 Aurelius pronounced.
It was a small stotage. Built for enduraher than decoration, but attractive all the same, in its simple and solid lines. Aurelius led me around the side of the house. Was it a hundred years old or two hundred? It was hard to tell. It wasn』t the kind of house that a hundred years made much differeo. Except that at the back there was a large ension, almost as large as the house itself, and taken up entirely with a kit.
『My sanctuary,「 he said as he showed me in.
A massive stainless-steel oven, white walls, two vast fridges—it was a real kit for a real cook.
Aurelius pulled out a chair for me and I sat at a small table by a bookcase. The shelves were filled with cookbooks, in French, English, Italian. One book, uhe others, was out oable. It was a thiotebook, ers blunt with age, and covered in broer that had goransparent after decades of being handled with buttery fingers. Someone had written RECIPIES on the front, in old-fashioned, school-formed capitals. Some years later the writer had crossed out the sed I, using a different pen.
『May I?「 I asked.
『Of course.「
I opehe book and began to leaf through it. Victoria sponge, date and walnut loaf, ses, ginger cake, maids of honor, bakewell tart, rich fruit cake… the spelling and the handwriting improving as the pages turned.
Aurelius turned a dial on the oven, then, moving lightly, assembled his ingredients. After that everything was within reach, aretched out an arm for a sieve or a khout looking. He moved in his kit the way drivers ge gear in their cars: an arm reag out smoothly, indepely, knowily what to do, while his eyes never left the fixed spot in front of him: the bowl in which he was bini