“You must be Martin,” she said; her voice carried a faint Irish inflection. “You’re up late.”
He looked at the clock on the wall. It was a few minutes past seven.
“You’ve got a fine morning to start.”
The back door was open; he crossed the expanse of the kitchen to survey the day. It was fine; another clear sky. Frost sugared the lawn. In the misted distance he could see what looked like tennis courts, and beyond them, a stand of trees.
“I’m Pearl, by the way,” the woman announced. “I cook for Mr. Whitehead. Hungry, are you?”
“I am now I’m down here.”
“We believe in breakfast here. Something to set you up for the day.” She was busy transferring bacon from the frying pan on the stove to the oven. The work surface beside the hob was littered with food: tomatoes, sausages, slices of black pudding. “There’s coffee on the side there. Help yourself.”
The percolator burped and fizzed as he poured himself a mug of coffee, the same dark but fragrant roast he’d tasted the night before.
“You’ll have to get used to using the kitchen when I’m not here. I don’t live in. I just come and go.”
“Who cooks for Mr. Whitehead when you’re away?”
“He likes to do it himself on occasion. But you’ll have to put in a hand.”
“I can scarcely boil water.”
“You’ll learn.”
She turned to look at him, egg in hand. She was older than he’d at first thought: maybe fifty.
“Don’t fret yourself about it,” she said. “How hungry?”
“Ravenous.”
“I left a cold spread out last night.”
“I fell asleep.”
She broke one egg into the frying pan, and then a second, as she said, “Mr. Whitehead doesn’t have fancy tastes, except for his strawberries. He won’t be expecting soufflés, don’t worry. Most of the stuff’s in the freezer next door: all you have to do is unwrap it and put it in the microwave.”
Marty scanned the kitchen, taking in all the equipment: food processor, microwave oven, electric carving knife. Behind him, mounted on the wall, was a row of television screens. He hadn’t noticed them last night. Before he could inquire about them, however, Pearl was offering further gastronomic details. “He often gets hungry in the middle of the night, or so Nick used to say. He keeps such funny hours, you see.”
“Who’s Nick?”
“Your predecessor. He left just before Christmas. I quite liked him; but Bill said he got a little light-fingered.”
“I see.”
She shrugged. “Still, you can’t tell, can you? I mean, he-” She halted in midsentence, quietly cursing her tongue, and covered her embarrassment by coaxing the eggs out of the pan and onto the plate to join the food she’d already assembled there. Marty finished her thought out loud for her.
“He didn’t look like a thief; is that what you were going to say?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she insisted, transferring the plate from stove to table. “Careful, the plate’s hot.” Her face had gone the color of her hair.
“It’s all right,” Marty told her.
“I liked Nick,” she reiterated. “Really I did. I’ve broken one of the eggs. I’m sorry.”
Marty looked down at the full plate. One of the yolks had indeed broken and was pooling around a fried tomato.
“Looks fine to me,” he said with genuine appetite, and set to eating. Pearl refilled his mug, found a cup for herself, filled that, and sat down with him.
“Bill speaks very highly of you,” she said.
“I wasn’t sure he’d taken to me at first.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, “very much. Partly because of your boxing, of course. He used to be a professional boxer himself.”
“Really?”
“I thought he’d have told you. This is thirty years ago. Before he worked for Mr. Whitehead. You want some toast?”
“If there’s some going.”
She got up and cut two slices of white bread, then slipped them into the toaster. She hesitated a moment before returning to the table. “I really am sorry,” she said.
“About the egg?”
“About mentioning Nick and thieving-”
“I asked,” Marty replied. “Besides, you’ve every right to be cautious. I’m an ex-con. Not even ex, really. I could go back if I put a foot wrong”-he loathed saying this, as if the mere speaking of the words made the possibility more real-“but I’m not going to let Mr. Toy down. Or myself. OK?”