The Journey Home: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

take care not to bother others with dissertations about their own affairs: after all, there are few things more tedious than people who bare their soul to one at every opportunity. Although my words may sound as if I find them cold or reserved, I don’t mean that at all: many English people are warm and considerate and in every way comfortable to associate with.
    To that point, I don’t remember Anthony ever directly discussing the anxiety and problems his sexual orientation has caused him. Not once during the two decades since we first entered Ditton Hall together and he whispered to me, “Don’t you think this could be turned into a first-rate hotel with a bit of work?”
    “I don’t think I could manage it,” I remember saying.
    “You? No one could manage it better than you.”
    “Oh, I don’t know. Wouldn’t it at least be sensible to wait till the war is over? No one will be coming here until then. And what with everything being rationed . . .”
    “We’ll have to make a start now if the house is ever to be ready,” he replied. “The war will end. And one can’t live on bread alone.”
    Twenty years and he has never complained to me about his lot in life, though some might have thought he had reason enough. The truth is often better left alone; there’s no need to turn over every stone in your path, no point wasting your time in endlessly regretting something that could have turned out differently. No, it doesn’t do anyone any good.
    Sometimes you have to get a grip on yourself to keep your thoughts under control, but it’s worth it. The reward is just around the next corner, whether it is a clutch of perfect eggs in a basket or the sound of birdsong on a still day. The soul can take delight in small things if one’s dreams only leave it in peace long enough.
    I got a bit chilled on the way here so I ordered hot soup as soon as I sat down. The girl was quick to serve me, as I’m the only customer. The other tables, twelve in all, are empty.
    The edge of the village is marked by a small, smooth stream flowing between grassy banks. The sign on the other side reads Bevenford, while on this side a couple of dozen houses huddle along little-used streets. I doubt there are more than two hundred people living here, though the waitress said she didn’t know when I asked her. Judging by her expression, she considered the number so small that she was embarrassed to admit it. It wouldn’t surprise me; I remember when I had just arrived in Reykjavik either exaggerating or pleading ignorance when someone asked how many people lived in Kopasker, the north Iceland village where I grew up.
    We drove slowly over the bridge into the village and stopped by the first building we came to, a green-and-white-painted garage with BP signs on either side of the frontage. I was feeling hungry but the driver said he wanted to check the oil and fill up with petrol, so we turned off the bumpy, unpaved road and drew up at the garage. As the driver had packed his own lunch, I left him with the car and set off on foot into the village in search of somewhere to eat. It wasn’t far, quarter of a mile at most, and I got chilled on the way only because it started to rain. I quickened my pace, as my coat had been left behind on the back seat of the car and I knew I’d be soaked by this steady drizzle if I didn’t get under cover quickly. I must have worked up considerable speed, judging by the way the baker and grocer stood and stared as I dashed into the high street.
    The soup soon warmed me and I was pleasantly surprised by the delicious omelette which followed it. It immediately brought to mind a story about Madame Poulard who ran the Hôtel de la Tête d’Or in Normandy and was widely famed for the airy perfection of her omelettes. Someone once described them as being like ballerinas on water. So it was no wonder that travelers should beat a path to Mont-Saint-Michel simply in order to taste them, and it became something of a