arrangements. He smelt of earth that had turned rank, of gas mains, sulphur and sweat. But above the filthy anorak and jeans his countenance seemed to show content with his role in the world. It was an expression that Andrew knew he had yet to find in his own face, search as he might.

The Gladiator gave full value for money, and issued a stream of advice and instructions. ‘They scream if their budgets are affected, and if their name is branded in the press it’s a bull’s eye. You must make them scream. I love to make them scream. Are you on the Internet? No? Fix it up. That’s how we pass information. That way, we can duck and weave past them. Meanwhile,’ he shoved a heap of paper at Andrew, ‘read these, but don’t let the pigs in blue get their hands on them.’

The top sheet of roughly printed paper read: ‘DON’T MUCK WITH OUR FUTURE.’

‘One thing,’ added the Gladiator.

‘What?’

The truth dragged itself out of him. ‘They win. They always do. But we have to keep on. Never, never give up.’

Anger hissed in Andrew. These days, he was surprised at the intensity of his feelings, sometimes rather frightened by them. After years of nothing, of no real change in how he perceived and reacted to his surroundings, his decision to fight his landlord and forge the letters, then the departure of his wife had wrought in him a sea- change. Very quickly, he had become this person with powerful feelings and the urge to act. He hoped that he would recognize himself.

The Gladiator shrugged. ‘We outsiders,’ he said, ‘we know’

Andrew thought then of Agnes, and of her hair tangled across the pillow. The intimacy of seeing her asleep had been erotic and dangerously satisfying, its secrecy thrilling.

It was a glimmer of hope for the farm. Agnes understood the situation. With her film she had taken on the role of keeper of Tithings. Its messenger, perhaps even its saviour.

The fact that he was deceiving her was something he felt she would understand when the time came to be transparent.

On the way home he stopped, on impulse, phoned Agnes at Flagge House and asked if he could look in.

The van bounced up the drive and the soft beaten colour and shape of the house was framed in his windscreen. At the sight of it, Andrew suddenly felt happy and in communion with Agnes. His meeting with her had been more than a professional one: it had ensured new connections. Unsure where to park, he drove round to the kitchen yard at the back. As luck would have it, Agnes emerged with a bowl of wet lettuce from the back door, looking strained and preoccupied. ‘Good Lord, Andrew. I didn’t expect you quite so soon.’ But a smile lit her face and he felt better.

He unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. ‘I’ve come to report that the Gladiator and I are now in contact.’

Shreds of lettuce drifted towards the stone flags. ‘Good.’

The meeting did not seem as easy as his imagination had painted it, and he said awkwardly, ‘I’ve got a present for you.’

He opened the freezer section in the back of the van and presented her with a large, bloody bag. ‘This was Cromwell. Or, at least, his back end. I thought you would enjoy him.’

‘Hallo, Cromwell,’ said Agnes dubiously.

Andrew closed the van door. ‘He rode in the tumbril with Nero, his best mate. They were happy’

Agnes swallowed and checked over the dried lettuce. ‘We’ll put that in the freezer. You’d better stay to lunch. Come, I’ll introduce you to the aunts, who think you’re a very nice farmer indeed with lots of fluffy lambs and ducks.’

She shoved the meat and lettuce on to the kitchen table and led him down the gloomy Victorian wing and through the drawing-room window on to the terrace.

‘Maud, Bea,’ she said, ‘Andrew has arrived.’

Maud had decked herself out in a large straw hat a la Bloomsbury and, a little unsteady on her feet, was leaning against the stone balustrade for support. Bea was sitting on one of the rusty chairs, sewing. Rust flakes had landed on her light green cardigan and one or two had migrated to a very pale cheek. She smiled at Andrew. ‘We’ve been hearing about your farm.’

Maud commandeered the remaining chair. ‘You look a bit undernourished,’ she commented. ‘Doesn’t your wife feed you?’

Andrew was amused. ‘I’ve always been thin, Mrs Campion.’

Agnes bent over Bea and brushed the particles of rust from her cheek. ‘I think you’ll like him,’ she whispered. Bea snipped at a piece of thread and Agnes realized that she had been sewing a button on to Freddie’s blazer. She watched the small fingers pat and dart, smoothing the material with enormous consideration. ‘You’re always doing something,’ she commented, with a rush of affection.

Bea looked up in her unobtrusive way. ‘Keeping busy makes me feel useful. It’s the small things, I always think. They keep one in touch with what’s important.’ With the care of the trusted custodian, she laid Freddie’s blazer to one side. ‘You wait, Agnes, until you’re older.’

‘And what has persuaded you to leave your cows?’ Maud was asking.

Andrew fixed his eyes on Agnes. ‘I’m on my way back from a meeting with an eco-warrior.’

‘A what?’

Andrew explained who the Gladiator was. ‘He’s an expert in burrowing and protesting against road- and house-building.’

‘Burrowing? Is that really necessary?’

Andrew said gravely, ‘I want to save my farm. Any tactic will do.’

‘How refreshing.’ Maud breathed in sharply, the powdered planes of her face working. ‘There’s far too much niceness about. Non? It will be the death of us.’ She swivelled to face Andrew. ‘I plan not to be nice at all from now on. I’ve wasted my life being nice.’

‘So have I,’ said Andrew, at a stroke creating a skilful complicity between himself and Maud.

‘We like each other. You can fetch the drinks now, Agnes.’ Maud twitched at her skirt.

‘I like the sound of your farm.’ Bea spoke up. ‘Do tell us about it.’

Maud fidgeted while Agnes handed out sherry. Andrew had begun a brief description when she cut him off. Agnes, you have remembered that Freddie’s coming to lunch?’

Bea’s sewing slipped to the ground. ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she said, as Andrew swooped to pick it up. ‘I must go and do things in the kitchen at once.’

In the kitchen, the remains of Cromwell had dripped a pool of blood on to the floor which settled into the loosened grout between the tiles.

After lunch, Freddie took Maud off for a drive and Bea, who declared she felt a trifle under the weather, went upstairs for a rest. Agnes and Andrew set out for a walk.

Thermals of warm air rose from the steps. ‘The house and grounds are about fifteen acres. It used to be bigger but various Campions have sold it off piecemeal.’

Andrew shaded his eyes and looked over to the houses hugging the perimeter wall. ‘Prime land, though. Who built that lot?’ He gestured at the cluster of villas whose roofs peered above the wall.

‘The farmer sold off-his field and the developers went ahead, despite the protests, built them and sold them to people who had never even heard of the village. Half of them don’t live here during the week.’

‘Like you?’

She grinned. ‘Hey, I do live here.’

They walked over the meadow to the river and she thought how much she liked his straightforward attitude. You knew where you were with someone like Andrew. He told you how it was. ‘I like the idea of you going into battle as an eco-warrior armed with cyber weapons and old-fashioned spades.’

‘You’ve probably filmed a lot of protest.’

‘Yes.’ She thought of the struggle she had had to get behind the lens and to get what she saw right. ‘But as an observer rather than a doer.’ She bent down, fingers tugging at the sappy grass. ‘It’s time to jump down off the fence. About the house, I mean.’ She crunched a stalk between her teeth and he observed how white they were against the pink-red of her lips. ‘But there isn’t much money’ She threw the grass away.

He said, with a rush, ‘The planning inquiry is coming up soon.’

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