The next day, being Saturday, I slept until nearly eleven o’clock

The next day, being Saturday, I slept until nearly eleven o’clock. When I woke up I was for a moment confused about where I was. Then I realised I had moved. Not really wanting to get up from my insolently comfortable bed I rolled over to my side and buried my head in the pillows. Just as I was beginning to come to a decision in my pondering whether to get up or not, a knock, followed by a voice, came.

” Mr. Ackroyd would like to know if you’ll be having lunch with him?” the voice, now identified by me as Mrs. Johnson’s, asked.

” Eh,” I very intelligently replied, “ if it’s not any trouble, I would love to.”

” Oh, it’s not any trouble at all. Mr. Ackroyd will be so glad. He told me last night, he did, what a nice young man you were.”

” That’s very nice of him. When should I be down?”

” Lunch is served at one, but I’m sure Mr. Ackroyd won’t mind your company.”

” All right.” I said. “ Thank you.”

“ You’re quite welcome,” she replied and then I heard her leave.

It took me a while to get up and even longer to wash and dress so it was almost a quarter to twelve when I entered the drawing-room. Ackroyd was there, reading. He looked up when I entered.

“ Mr. Swift!” he said, cheerfully, “I trust you slept well?”

“ Yes, thank you, I did,” I said, “and I would be delighted to join you for lunch.”

“ Excellent! Please take a seat.”

I did so, in a large, puffy arm chair.

“ Eh, so…” I began hesitantly, “what are you doing?”

“ I’m reading, a report.”

“ Oh.” For someone who thought I was a nice, young man Ackroyd seemed strangely unwilling to talk. Deciding that forcing my conversation upon him wasn’t a particularly intelligent course of action if I planned on staying in his regard, I studied the room. After a while I got rather uncomfortable with the silence. I started tapping my fingers against the armrest, half unconsciously. Ackroyd looked up when hearing the sound, a frown on his face which quickly turned into a small smile when he saw what it came from. I blushed.

“ Restless, Mr Swift?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“ A little,” I said, somewhat embarrassed. Ackroyd’s smile widened and he closed the file he was reading in and put it aside on a small table.

“ Let us talk, then “, he said. I waited, expecting him to continue, but he didn’t.

“ Very well. About what?” I asked.

“ I think I will grant you the privilege of picking a topic”, he said with a knowing smile.

“ Eh… All right. “ I hesitated; conversation wasn’t supposed to be this way. “ I guess… you could tell me more about your work.” I did of course realize this might bore him but it served him right for being so… annoying. He frowned and I grinned.

“ Very well, but don’t complain if my story bores you.”

I, of course, didn’t believe for a second that I’d be bored.

“ It won’t “, I assured him and made myself more comfortable in the chair. After a while he began his story. This one was not about a murder, but about a theft. I wont account for the details since they have no bearing on the story. Let’s just say that at the time he was finished I was far from bored. I was also hungry and thus Mrs Johnson’s arrival came very conveniently.

This became something of a routine during the following weeks. Ackroyd would tell me stories from his past and sometimes I would try to guess what conclusion he had reached. Of course, I had to attend to my work as well, which was starting to get more and more boring. I found myself looking forward to Ackroyd’s stories and the wry smiles he sometimes flashed me. He was, I realized after nearly ten weeks living in his house, my friend.

I don’t know how noticeable it is, but English is not my native language and I apologize for any misused or simply wrong idioms or expressions. Please correct me, spelling and grammar is easy to check up but things like that are harder.

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