Winston Oldspot had never considered himself to be particularly romantic.
This was not entirely surprising. Being the island’s current Night-Soil Man imposed certain practical difficulties upon the pursuit of love, companionship or even being in the proximity to other breathing creatures. Most people preferred any interaction with him to be from several yards away and somewhere upwind.
It came as something of a surprise, therefore, when, servicing the outside privy of The Squid and Teapot, he found himself plunged suddenly and catastrophically in love.
It was one of those rare early-summer nights on Hopeless, when the usually foul weather had decided to take a short break, leaving the island wrapped in a mist that felt almost balmy. Most of the population were, however, blissfully unaware of this small window of meteorological clemency, as it occurred in the early hours of a Tuesday morning, when only the Night-Soil Man and the occupants of The Squid and Teapot – who routinely kept decidedly unsociable hours – were awake to enjoy it. And this is why the front door of The Squid had been flung wide open, giving the inn a much-needed airing, and the ever-curious Winston a stolen chance to peer inside.
Astrid was sitting in the snug, no more than a dozen feet away, idly flipping through the pages of an ancient looking book, and softly shimmering as only an immortal can. Winston stood motionless in the doorway holding his lidded bucket to his chest, his young heart totally in thrall to the Valkyrie’s deadly beauty.
In the opposite corner of the room an apparently unoccupied chair creaked softly. Astrid ignored it.
Without flinching or covering her nose, Astrid glanced up at him with complete composure and said: “Good evening.”
Winston nearly dropped his bucket.
“Evening,” he croaked.
Then, panicking slightly under the force of her gaze, he attempted what he imagined might be interpreted as a sophisticated smile. Unfortunately this expression bore a troubling resemblance to gastric distress.
Astrid returned politely to her book.
Winston remained where he was for several long seconds.
The chair in the corner creaked again.
From somewhere within the vicinity of the cushion came a voice.
“You are standing in the doorway.”
Winston jumped violently.
“And you appear to be clutching a bucket.”
Winston glared suspiciously towards the chair.
“Mind your own business.”
“I assure you, this is my business. There has been precious little entertainment around here lately.”
Astrid sighed without looking up from her book.
“You’re not amusing.”
“On the contrary,” said the voice. “I endeavour to amuse everyone.”
“That,” said Astrid calmly, “is precisely the problem.”
At this point Reggie Upton wandered in from the bar, and paused immediately upon taking in the situation.
Winston was standing rigid in the doorway, staring open-mouthed at Astrid, who was quietly reading. The occupied chair sounded amused.
Reggie recognised danger when he saw it.
“Winston,” he said carefully, “aren’t you supposed to be servicing the outside privy tonight?”
Winston blinked.
“What? Oh. Right. Yes.”
Unfortunately, instead of going along the path, towards the privy, he continued to linger in the doorway, staring at Astrid with the mournful intensity of a dog watching a butcher lock up for the evening.
Reggie closed his eyes briefly. His inability to smell anything had allowed him to be one of the very few to be comfortable in Winston’s vicinity.
“Ah,” he murmured to himself. “I do believe our young Night-Soil Man has fallen under some sort of glamour. A tactful intervention may now be required.”
He straightened his waistcoat and glided over to the front door with the solemn air of a diplomat attempting to prevent international catastrophe.
“My dear Winston,” he began quietly, placing one hand upon the younger man’s shoulder. “I feel obliged, as both an officer and a gentleman, to offer some small counsel.”
Winston swallowed hard.
“Right.”
Reggie lowered his voice.
“Women such as Miss Astrid are not, as a rule, looking for poetry, grand declarations or displays of masculine ardour.”
Winston looked briefly hopeful.
“They’re not?”
“Good Lord no. Far too theatrical.” Reggie glanced discreetly towards Astrid. “The trick, my boy, is mystery.”
“Mystery?”
“Absolutely.”
Winston frowned.
“How do I do mystery?”
Reggie considered this carefully.
“Speak less. Look thoughtful. Perhaps stare into the middle distance occasionally, as though remembering tragic battlefields.”
“I’ve never seen a battlefield.”
“Then imagine one.”
The chair in the corner emitted what sounded suspiciously like a muffled laugh.
Astrid finally looked up from her book.
“You realise,” she said dryly, “that I can hear every word you are saying.”
Reggie froze.
Winston turned the colour of old porridge.
Astrid closed the book gently.
“For what it is worth,” she continued, “I have always preferred honesty to mystery.”
For one glorious moment Winston Oldspot appeared convinced that destiny itself had opened a door before him.
Then Astrid added: “Also, I have no intention of courting anyone on this island.”
The door closed again with audible finality.
Winston nodded with the tragic dignity of a man receiving battlefield news from a superior officer.
“Fair enough,” he muttered.
To everyone’s surprise, Astrid smiled faintly.
“You live in solitude and work alone,” she said. “Most men on this island would not last a night if they had to do your job. There is great honour in work done properly.”
Winston stared at her as though she had knighted him.
Then, swinging the bucket onto his back, he strode off towards the privy wearing the faintly stunned expression of a man who had just received the highest compliment of his life.
Silence settled briefly over the snug.
Then the unseen occupant of the chair spoke softly into the firelight.
“You realise he will remember that moment until the day he dies.”
Astrid reopened her book.
“Yes,” she said. “That is why one should be careful what kindnesses one offers the lonely.”
“Well said m’dear,” declared Reggie, smoothing his moustache. “Well said.”