An hour later, after a satisfying dinner of chicken korma with peas and rice, Peter and Ashleigh were relaxing upstairs in the two armchairs within easy reach of the cocktail cabinet.

      "Here's to whatever the future has in store," proclaimed Peter, raising a fresh glass of Bacardi.

      "And what future do you envisage?" replied Ashleigh, mirroring his actions with her lemonade.

      "I might meet some exciting young lady in the dole queue.  I might open my mail tomorrow and find I'm the beneficiary - awkward word, excuse me - the beneficiary of a million dollar legacy from a well-oiled uncle in Texas.  I might even succeed in selling half my oast-house to a certain person who's led rather a sheltered life but who'll take comfort in knowing there's an able-bodied man on hand to ward off any intruders.  Or I might simply sit up here all day, playing with my trains and generally lounging around, getting thoroughly pickled until the money runs out - who knows?  And who really cares?"

      "I care."

      "Then that just proves you're a very caring person, which is why I like you.  I hope you don't feel this has been a wasted evening?"

      "On the contrary," replied Ashleigh.  "I've enjoyed it - though I have to say, on reflection I don't think this idea of sharing is going to work."

      "Tell me why not.  Come on, let's hear more of that cold commonsense logic you dispense so freely.  Tell me what's wrong with splitting every room in half with a red and grey curtain down the middle and us each occupying half in splendid isolation."

      "There'd be a lot of work involved," she said, "and I'd probably soon find I wanted more space for myself.  I may have to make room for a lot of my aunt's furniture.  And I've decided I particularly like this room."

      Peter surveyed her with a lazy eye.  "You do, huh?  Then why don't you live up here and let me have the ground floor.  I'll agree to share the kitchen if you agree to feed me like you did this evening.  Seriously, that was the best meal I've tasted in weeks.  You really are a good cook."

      Ashleigh shook her head with a modest grin.  "I'm well practised after catering for a very fussy old lady.  But now," she added, looking at her watch, "I think it's time I made a move."

      "Why?" he protested.  "It's only just gone eight o'clock.  You said you had all that freedom, and you were determined to make the most of it.  If there's something you want to see on television, we can watch it together."

      Ashleigh stood up.  "No, Peter.  Sorry - it's been lovely, but I think it's time I left you to your own devices."

      "Devices?  What devices?  You mean the water-bed?"  He chuckled and pointed a finger.  "You're afraid of that bed, aren't you!  Afraid I might lure you onto it and reveal more of my animal habits.  No way - trust me, I'm far too sleepy to get up and do any of my Tarzan stuff tonight.  I'm just going to lie here and relax, if you don't mind, dreaming of things that might have been.  Have you ever slept on a water-bed?"

      Ashleigh admitted she was far too conventional.

      "Then why not splash out for once?  Do yourself a favour - give yourself a treat and lie there for just five minutes.  I shan't move a muscle.  I shan't even watch if you want to get undressed, but I recommend you try it.  You may never get another chance in the whole of your life."

      Ashleigh was in two minds, certainly tempted to experience a water-bed for herself, but she had enough sense to realise that in his present state Peter could become dangerously friendly.  If she lay there, open to attack, what would she do if he suddenly leapt on top of her like a randy tiger?  She cast her eyes around the room, and decided she could probably make a successful dash for the door, if necessary.

      "Perhaps just for a few seconds," she conceded.  "Though I certainly won't remove any clothes, if that's what you were hoping."

      "I'm easy," said Peter, "but I would advise you to take off those shoes.  Your spiky heels could cause a waterspout if you started getting frisky."

      Ashleigh removed her shoes, then allowed herself to fall back, gently easing herself towards the centre of the bed where she had to admit it felt blissfully comfortable.

      "People who've done it," drawled Peter, "say you get a similar sensation when you bathe in the Dead Sea.  Give it a few minutes, then tell me what I need to know, using your cold commonsense I find so endearing.  Big question: do I keep the water-bed or shall I send it back?"

      "That's up to you, Peter.  If it were mine, I think I'd be tempted to keep it.  After all, it's an investment that should last for many years."

      "Depends how much wear and tear it's likely to get," he grinned.  "Too many rough seas and who knows what maritime disasters might occur.  I think those beds are meant primarily for sleeping in, and not a lot else."

      "It seems logical to me."

      "Yes, I imagine it would.  So you really haven't been allowed to live life to the full in all your twenty-odd years?  That's criminal."

      "It's nothing of the kind, Peter.  Circumstances for me just evolved in that way.  We all live differently - you have your life-style; I have mine."

      "But yours is on the threshold of change," he said.  "Think of it.  A brand new life which a year ago was only a dream.  Have you had time to plan what you want to do?  Settle down and have children?  Travel abroad?  Visit the pyramids or the Grand Canyon?  Take up hang-gliding or maybe ice-skating.  Now there's a hobby I highly recommend - ice-skating.  Ever tried it?"

      Ashleigh shook her head.

      "No," he went on.  "Neither have I.  But it's always appealed to me, seeing those healthy young chicks spinning around in their short flared skirts."

      "I can imagine that would be your cup of tea," she said, "but I doubt if I'd have the energy."  Ashleigh glanced at the reclining Peter, and added: "Nor, I suspect, would you.  No, I'm a modest girl and I've decided I can manage without this particular luxury.  The bed's all yours and you're welcome."

      She stood up, and Peter looked most concerned.

      "You really don't have to go," he said.  "Sorry, I'm lousy company, I apologise - it's the drink.  It affects some people by making them loud and obnoxious, while others go all amorous and can't keep their hands off women.  Me, I just feel kind of relaxed and sleepy till I can't keep my eyes open.  We each have different life-styles, as you say, and mine often makes me grotesquely unsociable."

      "The way you are now, Peter, you're sociable enough for me.  I also know how to relax, though I usually like a spot of exercise after a meal.  My aunt always insisted on us walking five times round the garden after dinner.  You don't have much of a garden, do you?"

      "Who needs a garden when there's open fields, stretching as far as you can see, and much further than I could walk, especially after a good dinner.  We could go for a short stroll down to the woods, if you like - or maybe not - no, that's a dumb idea.  I guess you don't trust me any more.  How about an innocent stroll down the lane instead?"

      "Provided no-one comes hurtling along in a sports car," she agreed.  "In fact I'll feel much safer knowing you're a pedestrian.  Do you realise I had to dive for the hedge a week ago when you came scooting round that bend?"

      "Sorry," he said, "I had a lot on my mind that day.  I find it hard sometimes to unwind."

      "Then a walk will do you good.  Come on.  Have you explored the village yet?  It's changed a lot since I lived here, but I'd quite like to show you round and rake up a few old memories.  Come on, Fido, time for walkies!"

      Ashleigh persuaded Peter to his feet, and they went downstairs to put on coats.  It was getting dark, though there was still enough light for a pleasant evening stroll.

      "You're not afraid of getting mugged?" he checked as they set off.

      "By you?" she challenged him.

      "By anyone.  The world isn't as safe as it was.  There are some pretty unsavoury characters around nowadays - vandals, thieves, rapists and worse.  It's best to be careful, especially for a girl on her own."

      "Then I place myself entirely in your hands," she said.

      By way of response Peter took hold of her hand and pressed it firmly.

      "Warn me if this encroaches on your upbringing," he said.  "I daren't risk being too friendly.  Once bitten, I cry like a baby."

      Unsure how to respond, Ashleigh said nothing.  She held on to Peter's hand and swung it lightly to and fro as they walked past the old school.

      "That's where I first learned painting," she announced.  "French, long-division, and self-defence.  I proved useless at art but excelled in languages and maths.  Can we stop a minute?  If there's a way round, I want to see what it's like at the back."

      They crept along an alleyway by the side of the school, and came to another playground, grossly overgrown with weeds and tall grasses.  Ashleigh gave an involuntary, quivering sigh.

      "And to think twenty-five years ago I was an innocent little tot, running around here in my vest and knickers, trying hard to enjoy myself like all the others.  It was tough - very tough.  Nothing seemed worthwhile any more.  I prayed every day I'd see Mummy come marching round that corner and take me home again - but she never came."

      With a comforting press of his hand, Peter tried to console her.  

      "But you lived through it.  Lots of kids go through a tough time, and it's worse when there's no-one you feel you can confide in.  I could tell you plenty about my own childhood - that's another side-effect drink has on me - it makes me want to pour out my life-story."

      "That's okay," said Ashleigh.  "Go ahead."

      But Peter shook his head.  "Not here.  It mightn't be such a good idea, not yet.  Tell me more about your schooldays."

      Ashleigh pointed.  "See that tree with the white painted wicket still visible?  The boys used to hurl their cricket balls at that tree, not caring which way they bounced off.  I got hit full in the face once, and they banned hard balls in the playground after that."

      "That sounds eminently sensible."

      "The boys didn't think so.  Many of them resented it, and tried to pay me back by lobbing cricket balls at me from behind, and laughing if they managed to score a hit.  That's when I longed all the more for Mummy to come and take me away."

      "Never mind," he said softly.  "If anyone tries that trick tonight, he'll find he's bitten off a lot more than he can chew."

      "Like some guy who's just bought an oast-house?" Ashleigh retorted, staring up at him with a cheeky grin.

      "You look so cute when you do that," said Peter.  "You must have been a real handful when you were little."

      "I guess we all were.  Look, see that patch of grass over there?"  She pointed again.  "That's where they tried to make us play ridiculous games like French Cricket.  I found it all so alien and strange, and I was glad we were out of sight of the road.  Can you see through that window?  That's my first classroom - a dreadful place.  I know it's only a school, but I felt as lost here as if I'd been sent to a remand centre."

      There was just enough light for Peter to notice Ashleigh's tears.

      "No more sadness, eh?" he whispered gently and put an arm around her.  "You're grown up now.  You've become much braver and a lot more wise."

      "In some things maybe.  Not all.  Come on, let's get back.  This is giving me the most horrible creeps."

      They retraced their steps and strolled past the oast-house.

      "Nice place," Peter remarked lightly.  "Owned by a hermit, I shouldn't wonder.  Stop looking so envious - few of us can afford a place like that, so let's not loiter where we're not welcome.  Walk on a bit further.  Show me some more of your childhood."

      "It is a shame this has changed so much," Ashleigh sighed as they drew level with the old post office.  "There was a time when anyone could have walked in through that tiny porch and bought practically anything.  My aunt often sent me down here to buy oddments she'd run out of, and I swear the old lady always had them in stock.  She knew instinctively what her customers wanted, not like nowadays when shop-keepers deny all responsibility for what's available.  Oh, I do wish it was still open.  I was so looking forward to going in there again."

      "Then let's be bold," said Peter, and before Ashleigh could dissuade him he'd marched up to the front door and rung the bell.  He turned, grinning as they waited.  "One or two sceptics might be tempted to accuse me of being impulsive."

      The door was opened cautiously by a little old lady whom Ashleigh recognised at once.  She felt like rushing forward and giving her a loving hug.  "It's you!" she cried.  "Mrs. Gibbs!  You're still here."

      Dora Gibbs responded with a carefree chuckle.  "Bless me, that sounds like one of my old customers," she said.  "Come in the light and let me see if I can recognise who ...  wait - you're not my little Ashleigh, are you?"

      Ashleigh nodded in silence and tears pricked her eyes as Mrs. Gibbs held out welcoming arms.  "Oh, my lamb!  How wonderful!  But what are you doing back here?"

      Ashleigh blinked and managed a smile.  "I came to visit a friend who's just moved into the oast-house."

      "Aha!" sighed the lady, turning to Peter.  "My, it's a small world.  And I bet you're both longing to step inside for a minute?  Quite like old times, eh?"

      Ashleigh found herself in the tiny front room, now barely recognisable as the shop where many times she'd stood and offered up her pocket money.  But the door through to the back was still in the same place, the windows hadn't been altered, and the moulded ceiling was just as she remembered.

      "We get quite a few of the old faces popping in from time to time," Mrs. Gibbs went on.  "Here," she added, reaching across to the sideboard, "something for old times' sake."

      She held out a large round tin from which Ashleigh and Peter were invited to take a couple of toffees.  "Go on," she said, shaking the contents.  "Take a good fistful.  They're bad for me, so the doctor tells me.  And is this the young man who's taking over the oast-house?  Ah, I recognise him now."  She pointed a finger.  "You were in church yesterday, am I right?"

      When Peter nodded, she chuckled merrily.  "You see?  There's not much goes on in Shipley Green without word getting around - though I can't say the same for that lot up on the hill.  They claim they live in Shipley Green, same as us, but they don't know our Shipley Green of old, do they, not like we do?"

      Mrs. Gibbs's warm and loving chuckle played havoc with Ashleigh's composure, making it impossible for her to voice the many painful and poignant memories that threatened to overwhelm her.

      "It's wonderful to find you're still here," she murmured as her heart began to dissolve.  "This makes all the difference to my visit.  And you were just about the only person I could ever tell my troubles to.  You'll never know how much you meant to me, and this shop too."

      "Then pop in any time," the lady concluded as they stood by the door.  "I'm always here.  When my Harold died eight years ago, I felt I couldn't manage, not on my own, so they persuaded me I ought to retire.  But wait till I tell the others you're still around, they'll be so pleased.  You'll pop back again soon, I hope.  And don't wait another twenty years, or I might not still be here next time."

      Before they parted, Ashleigh gave Mrs. Gibbs a long and special hug.

      "That dear soul," she confided to Peter as they continued their walk.  "She was like a real mum to me.  Thank you for doing that, Peter.  I'd never have had the courage on my own."

      "It's my pleasure," he said as a faraway look entered his eyes.  "But you could do me a favour in return."

      "What's that?"

      "Just remember dear Mrs. Gibbs next time you accuse me of being impetuous."

      "I guess," she said quietly, "there's a lot about you that's not half as bad as I thought.  It's too late now to wake the whole village, but I really would like to show you the house where we used to live."

      "You're happy to walk on in the dark?" he teased.  "You're not afraid I might suddenly be tempted to kiss you?"

      "If that was your intention, Peter, you'd have done it when you had the chance, up in your room or back there in the school grounds when no-one was watching."

      "You make it sound as if I'd be committing an indecent act," he teased.  "I realise you were brought up with funny ways, but in my world there's nothing wrong in showing affection - letting someone know you care.  When you met that sweet old lady just now, you couldn't resist sharing the way you felt.  What you did for her was a lovely spontaneous gesture, and I'm sorry my own spontaneity on Saturday had such a contrasting effect."

      "But it has to be mutual, don't you see?  I knew instinctively that hugging Mrs. Gibbs was the right thing to do.  So I did it."

      "I guess your instincts are more reliable than mine," he said.  "But I'm glad.  I'm sure it made her very happy.  It's always good to know when someone cares about you.  In my world, that doesn't often happen."

      "The difference is, Peter, that Mrs. Gibbs never suspected for a moment that I was after anything else."

      "Not even another toffee?  No, I agree.  The circumstances were different from Saturday.  Sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up.  It's the alcohol again, displaying an uncharacteristic streak of honesty."

      "A normal person should be honest enough without resorting to drink," Ashleigh told him.  "There's nothing wrong in telling people how you feel, provided you don't strip away their dignity or suddenly catch them off guard."

      "You mean, if I asked nicely, I might be allowed to kiss you?"

      "I mean, if you had asked nicely, in the right place and at the right time, I might have treated your request with the respect it deserved."

      Before Peter could respond, Ashleigh stood still and pointed.

      "Look!  That's the house where I once lived, and there's a light on.  But please, I don't need to know who lives there now, not tonight - it's not like the sweet shop.  I just hope whoever's in that upstairs boxroom feels a lot more certain of her future than I felt about mine."

      "It must have been a horrid time.  I'm sorry.  I hate to think of any child being unhappy, especially a little girl."

      Ashleigh studied his face.  "You know, I wouldn't be surprised if you turned out to have quite a soft centre after all."

      "Surprised?  We're all soft inside, Ashleigh, but some of us build shells around our softness to protect it.  The question is - how thin is my shell and how thick is yours?  More to the point, do we still need to have shells?"

      "I'd say yes, for the time being, Peter.  As to how long it may remain necessary, time, as they say, will tell."

      She continued gazing up into his face.  He looked so different in the moonlight, kinder now, much more gentle, and far less arrogant.  In fact their brief exchange of silent gazing told Ashleigh a lot more about Peter than would have been prudent in words alone.  

      Some four hours later, shortly before eleven, Ashleigh had just settled down to sleep when the phone rang.  Anticipating some computer crisis in her office, she paused to collect her wits before answering in her best professional manner.

      "Hallo, Ashleigh Ferguson here."

      "Bull's-eye!" said a man's voice.  "First shot, and I get straight to the target.  Bravo!  That's what comes of being a regular churchgoer.  God must be on my side after all."

      "Peter?" she sighed, recognising his voice.  "What on earth is wrong?  I was nearly asleep."

      "Whoops!  I forgot, you work for a living.  Did I disturb you?  I am sorry.  I just wanted to say goodnight."

      "Is that all?  As I recall, you did that fairly thoroughly two hours ago."

      "I know, but this time I mean it.  Ashleigh, I really mean it.  You said something very profound this evening about suspecting ulterior motives when people tried to show affection, so I thought - if I phoned you, you'd know I wasn't trying to lead you astray or anything, since you're obviously protected from harm by the impenetrable phone line that runs between us, keeping us securely apart."

      "Peter, are you drunk?"

      "Me?  I'm speaking my mind, okay?  There's nothing wrong in that."

      "How did you get my number?"

      "Got it from Auntie," he chuckled.  "You were kind enough to tell me your aunt's surname, and I had this sudden flash of inspiration, so I made a bee-line for the directory, and scored a bull's-eye."

      "Honestly, Peter!  You could have woken half of Kent.  I don't suppose you stopped to think about that?"

      "Fortunately, half of Kent doesn't go around calling itself Challen or Challon.  Anyway, I got my hole in one, so the point is purely academic.  I hope you got home safely - well, obviously," he sniggered, "or you wouldn't be answering."

      "You are drunk.  Peter, what do you want?  I'm very tired and I have to be at work by nine in the morning."

      "I just wanted to thank you once more for a lovely evening.  I wanted to open my heart and tell you how much I appreciate you coming over here, cooking me that sumptuous dinner, and then taking me for a pleasant walk through your village.  It's a lovely village, Ashleigh, and you're a lovely girl.  There, I've said it.  You're a lovely girl, and I miss you.  I miss you very much because it's lonely here in my oast-house, all by myself.  Life for me has become very, very lonely."

      The line went silent as he waited for her sympathetic response.

      "Are you okay, Peter?"

      "I'm fine, just as long as I know I can look forward to seeing you again.  Am I being too impulsive if I suggest tomorrow?"

      "Peter, to be blunt, I'd prefer my invitations to come from someone who's sober."

      "That sounds promising.  All right, my friend, I'll phone you at work tomorrow afternoon.  Three o'clock - will that be all right?"

      "That'll be fine, Peter.  Good night."

      "Good night, sweet Ashleigh.  Parting is such sweet, sweet sorrow."

      Ashleigh found sleep unusually elusive.  She lay awake, picturing Peter in his boudoir with an empty Bacardi bottle dangling from his limp hand, too drunk even to crawl over to his water-bed.

      "The stupid fool," she mumbled to herself.  "The poor, pathetic, deluded fool!"

      Half an hour later, still unable to settle, she lifted the phone again and contacted directory enquiries.  

      "Peter, are you okay?" she asked as a drowsy voice came to her ear.

      "Oh, yes," he chortled, "I am now.  That shows you care.  Marvellous!  I knew you cared all along, Ashleigh, only you're too stubborn to admit it."

      "Do you do this every night?"

      "What?"

      "Use excessive alcohol as your hypnagogic soporific pacifier?"

      "A what?  What the hell's that in English?"

      "A narcotic sedative, Peter, an opiate.  In plain English, it means that whereas you lucky males are allowed four units of booze every day, compared to our meagre three, not even that degree of saturation is enough to satisfy a few such as yourself who seem hell-bent on abusing the privilege.  If you've imbibed a whole week's supply in one evening, you're heading for the hospital, my lad, and probably an early grave."

      Again the now familiar chuckle.

      "Oh, I love it when you talk like that.  And I love it all the more when someone sounds as if she really cares.  But truly, I'm fine," he sighed contentedly.  "I had maybe three more drinks since you left, that's all.  I figured I wasn't planning to drive anywhere, unless you invited me over to your place, which didn't seem likely.  Any further intoxication is caused simply by lying here, dreaming of you and reliving our evening together.  You're lovely.  I told you that, didn't I?  You're truly lovely, Ashleigh, and that's as far as I'm going to commit myself.  Save the rest for later."

      "Peter, I said this before.  No girl enjoys being propositioned by a drunk."

      "I'm not a drunk.  I'm fully coherent, or enough to know what I'm saying, and I want you to believe me when I say it's totally sincere.  I told you - alcohol makes me want to pour out my soul, and confess my sins to someone kind and understanding like you.  I know I'm rude and pig-headed when I'm sober, I know that.  I'm too embarrassed then to say what I think.  But what's coming to you now comes from the depths of my lonely soul, and that's the truth.  I think you're truly lovable.  Got that?  I'm not going to say any more because you said I ought to respect a girl's modesty, and I do respect you, Ashleigh, I respect you very much.  I'll phone you tomorrow as we agreed.  Till then, my kind and special friend, sleep well.  Dream of me, and I promise I'll dream of you."

      "Perhaps.  Good night, Peter."

      "Good night, Ashleigh, bless your heart.  You're a lovely cook.  That was a lovely dinner tonight, and it was cooked by a lovely girl."

      The voice faded away, but Ashleigh waited until Peter put down his phone.  Did she feel any better for having called back?  Not a lot, except that she knew she could now pick up the phone again, if need be, at any time.  She noted his number on the pad beside her bed, then settled back on her pillow, flattered to know she was at the centre of someone's thoughts, yet annoyed that it required Bacardi to bring his flattery to the surface.  In a turmoil of confusion, feeling warmly honoured yet somehow tarnished and cheapened, protected from personal danger while endangered by her protector, she eventually drifted away into a comparatively pleasant dream which had nothing to do with oast-houses, nor indeed their occupants.

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