Agnes tested the stew. ‘Delicious.’
Andrew regarded the magazines with a thoughtful expression. Then he picked up an armful and dropped them into the wastepaper basket. ‘Penny was obsessed by these damn things. Agnes, can you still make the film if we haven’t tied up who Jack and Mary were exactly?’
Agnes chopped up a carrot into nice, neat slices. ‘We will find out who Jack and Mary are. It’s a question of understanding where to look.’
‘Good.’ Andrew picked up the overflowing waste-paper basket and carted it outside. From out of the kitchen window, Agnes watched him lift the lid of the dustbin and, with one swift movement, tip in the magazines.
When Bel reappeared, with a face bare of makeup – ‘Behold, my country look’ – the meal was ready. Afterwards they drank coffee and whisky, and the two women regaled Andrew with tales of filming on location.
‘Do you get frightened?’ he asked, after the story of the sinking boat on the whaling trip.
‘Not really’ Without her painted-in eyebrows, Bel looked sweetly, and deceptively, childlike. ‘There are worse things than a perishing cold sea. Like a BBC budget meeting.’
‘Liar,’ said Agnes fondly.
‘I’m frightened that I’m going to lose the farm,’ said Andrew, gazing into his glass. ‘Very frightened.’ The whisky had obviously clocked in. ‘I hate builders, planners and landlords who think they can do what they like.’
He refilled his glass.
Bel had thought of something. ‘You need Gordon the Gladiator. He organizes peaceful opposition to builders. I’ll give you his address. We did a quickie fill-in on the eco-warriors not so long ago. He’s probably up a tree, but don’t worry, he runs a mobile off his social security’
‘Good,’ said Andrew blearily. ‘Up a tree, you said?’ The idea of the tree-borne gladiator appeared to strike him as funny. His shoulders shook and he dropped his head into his hands. And, very slowly, Andrew collapsed on to the table.
Agnes and Bel looked at each other. Bel staggered to her feet. ‘Come on, Ag. Upstairs with this one.’
They manhandled Andrew into his bedroom, laid him on the bed and closed the door. Bel backed theatrically into the minute third bedroom, which, Andrew had explained earlier, was once designated the nursery. Agnes had been put in the spare room.
Considering the amount of land surrounding it, the architect had been over-zealous in saving space in the house. This room was small, too, with a low ceiling and only just enough space to accommodate two single beds with a chest of drawers wedged between them. There was no room for a chair, the cupboard was too narrow for a coat-hanger, and every swish of water from the bathroom next door was audible.
Despite a dredging of dust on the chest of drawers, the room had been scrupulously maintained, and the absent Penny was evident in the clever curtains and bedspreads. Folded at the end of each bed were knitted rugs, of the kind often seen in charity shops. Agnes touched one. They reminded her of Bea, for it was the kind of thing she liked.
Someone had placed a vase of wild flowers and grasses on the chest of drawers with a lace mat to prevent the water staining the wood. It was a woman’s gesture. Penny’s, she imagined. The Penny who was performing the double act of both quitting and defending her territory. Andrew implied that you slough the skin of a marriage, just like that. Obviously Penny felt differently. Penny had made the dash for freedom and fresh air, but found her roots too strong and painful to pull up in one mighty heave.
After her parents had been killed, Agnes had not known in which hemisphere she would end up. At night, she curled up in bed, hands tucked between her thighs for comfort. She knew she had strayed into a bad story but she was sure that the mistake would be sorted out -if she was patient enough.
Perhaps that was what Penny felt. That she had strayed into the wrong story and she was keeping open her options. Or perhaps it was guilt that made Penny cook a stew, ladle it into tin-foil containers and bring it over to her abandoned husband.
Agnes lay with an unfamiliar pillow denting her cheek, and Julian crept into the bed. Tender and importunate, weary and bothered. Go away, she said. I have not invited you. But she had. She had, because she longed for him.
‘
Agnes thought about the grace she so desired, how it would feel and how she must set about attaining it. She twisted on to her other side and pressed her hand to her hot cheek. The nag of what might have been had never been so sharp.
She was woken by a crash in the passage. Sodden with sleep, she got out of bed and encountered Andrew sitting on the top stair. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered. ‘I slipped.’
She regarded him blearily. ‘What time is it?’
‘I’m afraid it’s only four o’clock.’ Agnes emitted a little groan. ‘I needed some water and thought I’d make less noise if I went down to the kitchen.’
‘And an aspirin?’
‘No.’ He placed a hand on the stair rail. ‘Go back to bed. We’ll wake Bel.’
He looked terrible. Agnes grabbed him by the arm. ‘You do need an aspirin. Come with me.’
He edged into the bedroom and she flipped open a pocket of her rucksack. ‘Double strength.’ She shelled two pills into his open hand and offered him her toothmug of water. He swallowed the pills and drank all the water.
Agnes slipped back into bed and Andrew slumped down at its foot. His fist struck a tattoo on his forehead. ‘I’m sorry. Whisky always does me in. Was I obstreperous? Rude?’
He seemed eaten up by an intensely private emotion and Agnes’s pity leaped into the breach. This was someone who needed care and comfort, which she could give at this precise moment. It was not easy to lose a spouse or, God knew – Agnes knew – to lose a lover.
He got up and opened the window to let in the air. Outside, it was quite still and he stepped aside to allow Agnes to see the first fingers of light trickling over the oak canopies.
The tousled hair and the curve of his back were unfamiliar but the thought,
Andrew turned and leaned back on the edge of the window-sill. ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Agnes. I’ve never met anyone who understands exactly what I am doing at Tithings. Do you mind me saying it?’
It was strange compliment. ‘Thank you.’
She must have sounded a trifle wary for he said, ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to pounce.’ Andrew shoved his hands up the sleeves of his dressing-gown. ‘Look, no hands. Apart from anything else, booze kills my performance.’ He was beginning to shiver noticeably.
He turned to her and his whole body was shuddering. ‘I’m at my wit’s end. I don’t know what to do.’
This was a cry for help. Agnes pulled back the sheets. ‘Get in or you’ll get pneumonia.’
‘Are you sure? I have some sense of decency left.’
‘Look, you get in under the blankets, I’m under the sheets. Will that do?’ Andrew did not require further encouragement and his shaking, gelid body slid in beside hers, insulated by a couple of blankets. Feet. Thighs. Long, lean back. Unfamiliar bones.
‘Sorry,’ said Andrew, in the dark. ‘You must forget this conversation and this drunken display. Whisky talk.’
She shifted her back against the wall. ‘Don’t worry.’ She felt him relax a little. ‘I was taken to a reception the other day. There was champagne and powerful people, intent on carving up land like yours. The talk was of the future. But it was a limited future for it was all their future. So we have to make sure your sort of future is given a chance.’
‘Didn’t Jack say something like that?’
She smiled. ‘Did he?’
They lay quietly, their breath steadying into a shared rhythm, Andrew growing heavy against Agnes, he seeking the comfort of being close to another human, she dispensing it. It was the solidarity of body against body, ranged against the terrors and anxieties of the night: a strange, unimaginable intimacy, which sometimes happens between people.
