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This new pair are different to the last, but in many ways the same. Pat sees them first, from the place he likes to sit on the porch, thinking about reading a book - he has almost completely memorised Great Expectations, and he thinks his version of the last fifty pages is much improved on the original version. He's got to page fifty-two, and things are just getting exciting, when he hears the hum of an engine getting closer and he turns to see what's coming up the drive.
"They don't look like inheritors," Fanny says doubtfully.
All the currently sentient (but dead) inhabitants of the manor peer out of the window, looking at the two men clambering out of the little green car. One of them is tall and blonde, and stands a little hunched in on himself like he's aware of his size and wants to minimise it. The other is skinny and dark, with long, greying hair tied up behind his head, although in face he doesn't look much older than his friend - he stands tall, although listed over to one side, as though when he walks he will limp. Their car boot is full of cardboard boxes and black crinkly binbags.
"Maybe they're buyers," says the Captain. "Or estate agents."
They all look again, but neither man is wearing the sort of suit and earphone combo that estate agents - or at least the kind that come to the manor - favour.
"Maybe they're thieves," Pat says cheerfully.
Neither of them can see any of the inhabitants of the house, which is an unfortunate splash of cold water; Pat had been hoping someone would take down a new book for him to memorise, but it appears he'll have to rely on the good grace of Julian and his power of moving things very, very slowly. Which is fine, but Pat had rather got used to Allison taking down the books he wanted to read (Dickens, Austen, a few Brönte sisters) whereas Julian tends to take down racy magazines with stockings in them, or dull books about family law. Pat didn’t care about stockings even when he was alive, and he can’t bring himself to care about family law now he’s dead, but beggars cannot be choosers, as Thomas is so cheerfully fond of repeating.
The big one is called Martin and the little one is called Jon.
“He is Jon; I saw it written on his suitcase,” Thomas points, “And he is Martin, because Jon called him so.”
“Not family names,” sniffs Fanny. “And that one sounded positively northern - no, no, I won’t have it. Michael I could tolerate, but only because he fixed the pipes. I’ll have nobody further north than-”
“Pole,” Robin suggests. “North Pole.”
They fall into bickering, which Pat cannot abide at the best of times, and so he drifts down from the second-floor sitting room into the kitchen, where Jon and Martin (how exciting) have decided to leave their boxes and bags and cases and miscellany.
“It’s drafty,” Jon is saying. He sounds very London, very BBC, and Pat thinks that this at least is something Fanny would approve of. “Oh, Martin, I hope you’re right about this.”
Martin, by the door, shuts it. He’s smiling, although his face is creased in the way faces get when they have worried for too long. “I know I’m right about this, and it’s drafty because you left the door open. Allison wouldn’t have given me the keys if she didn’t think we could handle it, and you were the one who said - and I quote - if I stay another second in London I’ll go bonkers.”
“I didn’t think we were going to come here, exactly,” Jon says, and Pat worries that their new residents will be squabbling - well. Friends? Adopted brothers? Mention of Allison has him relaxing.
They all trust Allison.
Martin moves away from the door towards him, and takes one of Jon’s hands in his. It’s a surprisingly intimate action, for a friend. “We’re here now and you’re going to make the best of it and come with me on country walks or I’ll kill you, Mr Blackwood.”
“Oh, fine,” Jon’s face does something complicated and silly. “And I guess for the sake of marital unity I have to agree?”
Then they’re kissing, which is something Pat has never felt happy about playing voyeur to, and he runs away before they can do anything else.
“Married?”
“Poetry!”
The Captain and Thomas stare at each other, with identical looks of disgust on their faces. “I couldn’t give a damn about the poetry, man, they’re married! To each other!”
“Oh, they could be married to seperate walruses if they liked,” Thomas says airily, “The point is that one of them writes poetry about it! Rather interesting poetry, too, although he could benefit from an older mentor-figure. If Allison could just, oh, act as go-between…”
“Nobody is being mentored by anyone else,” thunders the Captain, his cheeks reddening surprisingly fast. “Married - Pat, are you sure?”
“Well, they’re both wearing rings, and neither of them has mentioned the proverbial,” Julian says. “Proverbial wife,” he adds, when Pat stares at him.
“There is no proverb about any of this sort of thing, I assure you,” Fanny flaps him away. “No, no, tell us again, Pat. You might have been mistaken.”
“I am not mistaken.”
Thomas, still mooning about poetry, floats out the door chanting something about the sun on a still lake, and about the advances in metre since the last time he was handed something to read. Pat takes a deep breath. “They are married to each other, because I saw a picture on one of their - tappy devices, the things, of them getting married. Suits, flowers, the whole job. And a bridesmaid with a little service dog who held the rings, which I thought was very cute. Anyway, I don’t see what the problem is.”
“Problem!” The Captain says. “Problem!”
Pat raises an eyebrow. “Yes, one of those. We have them from time to time. But I’m not sure this is one - don’t you remember Allison’s little brother? He had a boyfriend.”
“A boyf-” the Captain looks positively apoplectic, and Pat wonders if he’s perhaps pushed a little too far. “I did not know that!”
“They slept in the same room!”
“I thought it was cameraderie between dear friends!”
“That’s one way to put it,” Julian says, and does that silly snorty laugh that Pat so despises.
“Well, I think it’s jolly good,” Pat says firmly. “I’ve missed living people around the place to turn the telly on when Julian can’t be bothered, and maybe they’ll switch the channels over. I am so sick of the One Show.”
“Married.”
“Oh, never mind all that,” Thomas’ head sprouts from the floorboards, “He’s reading his poetry aloud! It’s so romantic. You would hate it,” that directed at the Captain, who has sailed through red and purple and is now a charming shade of puce.
“Aloud… to his. To his husband?”
Thomas shrugs. “To who else? It’s sickening. I used to read my poetry aloud, and nobody ever cried, not even once. I think they might be about to go to bed. That’s very effective poetry.”
“I must put a stop to this by scoping the - the scene of the crime,” says the Captain. He’s turning pale again, a little whiter than white. “I must… observe. Truly get to know the - the enemy, so to speak. Yes. Nobody else interrupt me, please.”
He vanishes after Thomas, and Julian wanders off, muttering something about the TV.
“He’ll get there eventually,” Fanny says, like an indulgent grandmother. “He had his eyes on that televisual man. You remember the one.”
Pat rubs his hand over his face. “I remember. But until he gets there he’ll drive us all absolutely round the bend, don’t you know?”
“Oh, I have my suspicions about Julian,” says Fanny. She grins. “Want to go and see what he’s up to?”
“Which one?”
“Oh, any of them.”
Pat smiles right back. “Sounds fun to me.”