a crisis at work.
‘Someone’s put… I don’t… someone’s put Barry’s…’
She beckoned him into the home office, cluttered, shabby and cosy, with Barry’s old rowing trophies on the shelves, and a big framed photograph on the wall of eight teenage girls punching the air, with medals around their necks. Mary pointed a trembling finger at the computer screen. Still in his coat, Gavin dropped into the chair and stared at the message board of Pagford Parish Council’s website.
‘I w-was in the delicatessen this morning, and Maureen Lowe told me that lots of people had put messages of condolence on the site… so I was going to p-post a message to s-say thank you. And — look…’
He spotted it as she spoke. Simon Price Unfit to Stand for Council, posted by The Ghost of Barry Fairbrother.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Gavin in disgust.
Mary dissolved into tears again. Gavin wanted to put his arms back around her, but was afraid to, especially here, in this snug little room so full of Barry. He compromised by taking hold of her thin wrist and leading her through the hall into the kitchen.
‘You need a drink,’ he told her, in that unfamiliarly strong and commanding voice. ‘Sod coffee. Where’s the proper stuff?’
But he remembered before she answered; he had seen Barry take the bottles out of the cupboard often enough, so he mixed her a small gin and tonic, which was the only thing he had ever known her drink before dinner.
‘Gav, it’s four in the afternoon.’
‘Who gives a damn?’ said Gavin, in his new voice. ‘Get that down you.’
An unbalanced laugh broke her sobs; she accepted the glass and sipped. He fetched her kitchen roll to mop her face and eyes.
‘You’re so kind, Gav. Don’t you want anything? Coffee or… or beer?’ she asked, on another weak laugh.
He fetched himself a bottle from the fridge, took off his coat and sat down opposite her at the island in the middle of the room. After a while, when she had drunk most of her gin, she became calm and quiet again, the way he always thought of her.
‘Who d’you think did it?’ she asked him.
‘Some total bastard,’ said Gavin.
‘They’re all fighting over his council seat, now. Squabbling away over the Fields as usual. And he’s still in there, putting his two cents in. The Ghost of Barry Fairbrother. Maybe it really is him, posting on the message board?’
Gavin did not know whether this was meant as a joke, and settled for a slight smile that might be quickly removed.
‘You know, I’d love to think that he’s worrying about us, wherever he is; about me and the kids. But I doubt it. I’ll bet he’s still most worried about Krystal Weedon. Do you know what he’d probably say to me if he was here?’
She drained her glass. Gavin had not thought that he had mixed the gin very strong, but there were patches of high colour on her cheeks.
‘No,’ he said cautiously.
‘He’d tell me that I’ve got support,’ said Mary, and to Gavin’s astonishment, he heard anger in the voice he always thought of as gentle. ‘Yeah, he’d probably say, “You’ve got all the family and our friends and the kids to comfort you, but Krystal,”’ Mary’s voice was becoming louder, ‘“Krystal’s got nobody to look out for her.” D’you know what he spent our wedding anniversary doing?’
‘No,’ said Gavin again.
‘Writing an article for the local paper about Krystal. Krystal and the Fields. The bloody Fields. If I never hear them mentioned again, it’ll be too soon. I want another gin. I don’t drink enough.’
Gavin picked up her glass automatically and returned to the drinks cupboard, stunned. He had always regarded her and Barry’s marriage as literally perfect. Never had it occurred to him that Mary might be other than one hundred per cent approving of every venture and crusade with which the ever-busy Barry concerned himself.
‘Rowing practice in the evenings, driving them to races at the weekends,’ she said, over the tinkling of ice he was adding to her glass, ‘and most nights he was on the computer, trying to get people to support him about the Fields, and getting stuff on the agenda for council meetings. And everyone always said, “Isn’t Barry
Gavin could not take his eyes off her. Anger and alcohol had restored colour to her face. She was sitting upright, instead of cowed and hunched over, as she had been recently.
‘That’s what killed him,’ she said clearly, and her voice echoed a little in the kitchen. ‘He gave everything to everybody. Except to me.’
Ever since Barry’s funeral, Gavin had dwelled, with a sense of deep inadequacy, on the comparatively small gap that he was sure he would leave behind in his community, should he die. Looking at Mary, he wondered whether it would not be better to leave a huge hole in one person’s heart. Had Barry not realized how Mary felt? Had he not realized how lucky he was?
The front door opened with a loud clatter, and he heard the sound of the four children coming in; voices and footsteps and the thumping of shoes and bags.
‘Hi, Gav,’ said eighteen-year-old Fergus, kissing his mother on top of her head. ‘Are you
‘It’s my fault,’ said Gavin. ‘Blame me.’
They were such nice kids, the Fairbrother kids. Gavin liked the way they talked to their mother, hugged her, chatted to each other and to him. They were open, polite and funny. He thought of Gaia, her vicious asides, silences like jagged glass, the snarling way she addressed him.
‘Gav, we haven’t even talked about the insurance,’ said Mary, as the children surged around the kitchen, finding themselves drinks and snacks.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Gavin, without thinking, before correcting himself hastily; ‘shall we go through to the sitting room or…?’
‘Yes, let’s.’
She wobbled a little getting down from the high kitchen stool, and he caught her arm again.
‘Are you staying for dinner, Gav?’ called Fergus.
‘Do, if you want to,’ said Mary.
A surge of warmth flooded him.
‘I’d love to,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
IV
‘Very sad,’ said Howard Mollison, rocking a little on his toes in front of his mantelpiece. ‘Very sad indeed.’
Maureen had just finished telling them all about Catherine Weedon’s death; she had heard everything from her friend Karen the receptionist that evening, including the complaint from Cath Weedon’s granddaughter. A look of delighted disapproval was crumpling her face; Samantha, who was in a very bad mood, thought she resembled a monkey nut. Miles was making conventional sounds of surprise and pity, but Shirley was staring up at the ceiling with a bland expression on her face; she hated it when Maureen held centre stage with news that she ought to have heard first.
‘My mother knew the family of old,’ Howard told Samantha, who already knew it. ‘Neighbours in Hope Street. Cath was decent enough in her way, you know. The house was always spotless, and she worked until she was into
