The policeman gave the papers a glance and then paused for a moment, as if he was deciding what to do, before tapping Jim on the arm with them.
‘Next time you fancy playing the white knight and picking your girl up from the city, make sure you check which way you’re going, no matter what she tells you, OK?’
‘I will,’ said Jim, giving the officer a charming contrite smile.
The policeman got back in his car and gave them both a look before shaking his head and driving away.
They stood on the pavement in silence for a few moments.
‘He has a difficult wife,’ said Jennifer finally, watching the tail lights of the police car fade from view.
‘How do you know?’ said Jim, leaning on the open door of the truck.
‘There was sympathy in his eyes when I said I’d insisted you pick me up.’
‘So you’re the white knight in this situation,’ said Jim, raising one of his brows.
‘I think I helped back there,’ she said with a slow grin.
‘Thank you,’ he said after a moment. ‘For saving me from the county jail,’ he added, not entirely seriously.
They stayed rooted to their respective spots.
‘So what are you doing downtown?’
‘Checking it out,’ shrugged Jim.
‘I thought you weren’t interested in the delights of Savannah?’
‘I figured, seeing as I’m here . . .’
‘You want a native to show you the sights?’ she asked him impulsively.
‘Are you offering?’
‘So long as you let me drive,’ she said as an inviting and sweet-smelling breeze whistled down the street.
‘Why don’t we walk?’ he suggested.
‘OK,’ she replied without even thinking.
She led him east, mindful that they should not venture too far north towards Broughton Street; she had no desire to see Connor again this evening, especially not when she was with Jim Johnson. They threaded through the back streets of the historic district, now draped in twilight, just the glow from the street lamps lighting up the city. She pointed out some of the city’s most notable buildings, the slim white stuccoed town house that had been the childhood home of one of her favourite writers, Flannery O’Connor; the grand Andrew Low house on Abercorn Street; and Poetter Hall, the beautiful redbrick Romanesque revival jewel that was now home to the Savannah College of Art and Design. She told him about the history of the city and its links to England, how it had been colonised by the British general James Oglethorpe, who brou
ght over some of London’s poor in the hope of giving them a fresh start; and she explained that the tangle of grey feathery fibre draped from every tree branch was Spanish moss, a tropical flowering plant that was surrounded by myth and legend.
In return, Jim explained what had brought the family to Savannah. His father was apparently a big literary name in England, but had been unable to replicate his success after an early hit, published when Jim was young. He had been sent here by his agent to write his comeback book, and Jim had been persuaded to accompany his parents. The deal was that he would spend two months in Savannah, keeping his mother company whilst his father wrote, and in return they were going to buy him an Interrail ticket to travel around Europe before college started again in October. Jim was obviously looking forward to this trip, but reading between the lines, Jennifer could also tell that he was keen for his father to get his career back on track.
He described how he had been pulled out of private school aged thirteen, when the money for school fees ran out. How he’d gone to university in London so that he could live at home and make his student grant go further, funnelling his spare time and money into his music. It was when he talked about this that his face really came alive.
He told her how he got his first guitar for his twelfth birthday and had over the years taught himself the clarinet, the piano, even an instrument called the sitar, and how he had paid for his last vacation to the South of France by busking all the way down from London to Nice. His heroes were Nick Drake and John Martyn, names that didn’t mean a great deal to Jennifer but whose music she made a note to listen to. He’d already written more than thirty songs; he wanted to send them off to a record company but wasn’t quite sure he had nailed the killer track that would land him a record deal. He wanted to write a novel too, and had already done some short stories, but unfavourable comparisons with his father’s genius put him off devoting more time to it.
Everything about Jim Johnson was different – his accent, his intellectual, exotically bohemian background, his references to his London life: a pub that used to be frequented by highwaymen, school trips to the Houses of Parliament that sounded as if they were straight out of a history book – and perhaps that was why he was so easy to open up to.
‘So what have you been doing in town tonight?’ he asked as the conversation lulled.
‘At a friend’s party,’ she replied, thoughts of Connor making her grimace.
‘Wasn’t it any good?’