One of his girlfriends once described him as looking like a poet. Ashley had liked that. Indeed, he was fine to look at, bordering on good-looking if caught at the right angle … yet … yet there was something wimpish about him. It was impossible to put a finger on. It wasn’t because he was not very tall. That in itself doesn’t matter any more. Nor was it that he was not well-built. And it certainly wasn’t his lack of hair though it would have been better had he shaved it off properly. Yes, perhaps that was it – that he tried to comb his thin wispy hair over his scalp. It was also in the drooping shoulders and the fractionally petulant expression on his face. That was it. Had he put his shoulders back and stood up straight, altered the expression on his face to one of positive cheerfulness, and shaved his hair off totally, he’d have been a good-looking man.
But Ashley had never been overly concerned about his looks. Clean, clean clothes, ironed clothes, clean finger-nails, order and organization. That summed him up.
Had anybody predicted what was going to happen he’d have laughed. That was not his kind of thing at all. Not at all. No way. He hated anything like that. All that messy stuff, the intrigue, the ducking and diving, hell – the blood, the running and hiding. That was not his kind of thing at all. Never, ever would he be involved in that sort of thing …
Extract from “The Man with Green Fingers”, a novel set in Cyprus:-
“She gave me this,” said John delving rapidly in to his shirt pocket and producing an envelope, “forty pounds – she wanted to pay you anyway and she apologizes.”
The monk, his mouth open still, took the envelope from John’s hand.
“Thank you,” he said. “May I ask – are you a friend of Mrs Platt? She seemed so eager to rest here a few weeks. In fact,” he reached in to a drawer – “ a letter has arrived for her.”
John took the letter, trying hard to not snatch. He instantly recognized Kirsty’s handwriting.
“I’ll give it to her,” he said.
The monk seemed to hesitate, his hand still poised in mid-air, fingers slightly apart where the envelope had been, then shrugged slightly.
“Very well,” he conceded.
“Goodbye,” said John a little curtly, and turned from the monk back towards the car park. The monk didn’t reply.
Back in his car he ripped the envelope open.
“Dear Stella,” it read, “I hope you have a lovely rest. Don’t worry – I won’t turn up! Thought a letter would cheer you along, however. If you do decide to pop off to England do please please phone me because there are several things you could bring back for me – if you don’t mind, that is. Anyway. See you next term. Love from Kirsty.”
Stella would have murmured “sweet child” but John found the card irritating and tore it in to several pieces. Revving too hard, he reversed quickly and drove away back down towards Paphos, taking the bend rather too fast. In his rear-view mirror he could see the monastery recede in to the distance, its imposing stone walls and pine-encrusted mountain backdrop like a scene from a picture post-card. He sped rapidly down past Kamares – he had once toyed with buying a villa here – and on to the Limassol road just north of Paphos. Here he pulled in next to a bin where he threw the torn shreds of Kirsty’s letter. Tourist traffic was building up and John was glad of the air-conditioning and the blue-grey shading of his windows. Above Paphos he skirted the centre, taking the Ktima road and reaching the dual carriageway further east. He eased on to it, swearing under his breath at other drivers. He was glad to get away from the Paphos area and the past two weeks had, for the first time, seemed very long. Was he perhaps tiring of Stella ? The very thought was alien to him…………. yet he could not deny that it was on his mind.
He picked up speed once on the main road, his teeth grit and his fists clenching the steering wheel, and sped the half hour to Limassol where he veered left above the city and headed off in to the mountains. The buildings and the glaring city fell away behind him and, a little at a time, first the low hills and the brown and shallow valleys, the mountain scenery encompassed him, and his shoulders relaxed and his grip on the steering wheel began to loosen. Not till he reached Trimiklini did the sensation of irritation and impatience totally leave him, replaced almost instantly with a feeling of peace and tranquillity; he slowed his speed and meandered confidently up the mountain pass, smiling slightly in to the hills, noting the flora as he passed, and looking forward to seeing Pia.
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