out of the exit and entrance. A couple of dead flies lay between the vases of flowers on the window-sill. The recycled air felt hot and heavy.
Her throat ached in a familiar way. Had it all been a waste, that fumbling towards a different understanding?
The ache spread to her back and, as she moved, there was a sharp twinge of stretched tendon down her side. She brushed her hand across her waist, which was no longer a curve but something lumpier and more mysterious. A nurse called out sharply. There was the clatter of a trolley moving down the ward. Agnes pressed the ache in her back and shifted her stance. Her body had been invaded and, at thirty – nearly thirty-one – it was time.
There was no point in not forgiving. Life flowed in one direction and it was impossible to go back.
She turned and leaned over the bed to kiss the hot, swollen forehead, forcing her lips to touch the flesh in farewell and regret. ‘Of course.’
When Penny poked her head around the curtain, she was bearing a tray loaded with polystyrene cups and a plate. ‘I don’t know if you’ve managed to eat, but just in case you haven’t I’ve got a sandwich. Egg without mayonnaise.’ She balanced the tray on the locker. ‘I wasn’t going to spend good money on beef.’
How very like Penny. Flowers in a spare bedroom. Sandwiches on the tray. Her courage could not be questioned.
Agnes accepted the tea and the sandwich. ‘You are kind,’ she said, and meant it. ‘How much do I owe you?’
Penny looked from Agnes to Andrew and drew her conclusions. ‘Nothing,’ she said.
30
The phone call to Dickie at the BBC was one of the more difficult ones that Agnes had ever made. She outlined the situation as matter-of-factly as possible, and suggested the new scenario.
Dickie sympathized. ‘Such a prang, sweetie, but better to ‘fess up on the bended. Anyway, as you know, the honchos weren’t quite so keen on this one. Not very here-and-now, if you know what I mean. But hurry to get some more of your usually scintillating ideas in, otherwise it’s slippery-slope time. Be there, sweetie. Do something.’
Agnes laughed. ‘What would I do without you, Dickie?’
‘Think future,’ advised Dickie. ‘Think bright lights. Think Oscar level. I mean, darling, how do you
After a week in hospital, Andrew begged Penny to take him home. He wanted to see the animals, he said.
In the tidy, clean-smelling kitchen, he leaned gingerly against the Rayburn, so frail-looking now that the swelling had gone that Penny was shocked.
She hoped, oh, she hoped, that it was not for Agnes. The thought terrified her but she would make herself carry on. So she rattled around in the drawers, made coffee, put things away, boiled milk.
‘Coffee?’ She shovelled Andrew’s hospital-smelling pyjamas into the machine.
He was watching her. ‘Why are you doing this, Penny?’
‘Because…’ she straightened up ‘… we’re in this together.’ She held her breath against what he might say next.
The machine whirled and clicked. ‘You mean for better and for laundry.’
It was an appalling joke, but she was so thankful that he had made it that she could not speak. It was so much better than nothing. Much, much better. Screwing up her courage, Penny pushed her husband’s hair away from the features that were settling back into their proper focus. ‘I know I’m not what you want…’
He arrested her hand. ‘You don’t know what I want, Pen, so you mustn’t worry.’
In the past, she might have said something brisk or cutting, or resolutely practical, but Penny had learned the value of silence. And she had also learned that it was impossible to be the companion to the inner life of your spouse. That was hard. Even so, she could not prevent herself saying, ‘After all these years I have some idea.’
The washing circled and recircled on its cycle. Unexpectedly, Andrew slid his arm around Penny. ‘Yes, of course you do, Pen. I was wrong.’
Penny followed Andrew into the sitting room. He looked at the chair. Sitting down was risky, for his skin was still broken and weeping. What the hell? He lowered himself into the seat. Penny bustled around, drawing curtains and serving the coffee.
She brought his mug over to him and knelt down. ‘One of the things I found so difficult was that you never told me what you were feeling.’
It was an uncharacteristic pose for Penny, and it would have cost her to make it. Andrew’s deflated sausage fingers lifted and dropped back on to the arm of the chair. ‘I don’t like to think I drove you to his… bed. But I obviously did.’
He was sorry for a lot of things. The poetry he had once meant to write. His failure to rout Stone at the first hurdle. His failure to make his marriage a success. To have snapped up Agnes and taken her away. To accept that he had to move on.
Penny got up, went to sit in the chair opposite and crossed her legs in the manner that reminded him of when, young and slim, they had begun their married life and each had seemed complete.
‘Would you like to look at the telly?’ Her tone was light and brisk.
He shook his head.
‘Radio?’
‘Nope.’
‘Andrew, don’t go all dreamy on me. Smile.’
He turned his head away: his longing for what had never been, and would never be, was a physical hurt.
‘Andrew. Please smile.’
How is it possible to gather in a harvest from barren land?
‘Andrew…’ Penny’s eyes had filled with tears.
Summoning his resolution, Andrew did as he was asked for it was the only thing possible, the only route left. He turned back to face his wife, and the image of a girl with flowing blonde hair, dressed in green and white, shimmered through his vision with the shock and pain of the dead.
Obediently, he smiled at the anxious but loving woman who shared his real life.
Julian drove over to Kitty’s cottage and parked. It looked odd, unfamiliar, for the windows were bare of curtains and large for-sale notices decorated the drive.
It was even odder to walk up to the front door, to knock and to wait. But wait he did. Kitty called to him to come in, and he discovered her kneeling on the floor of the sitting room by a large packing case, surrounded by objects. Julian recognized the Staffordshire figurines and the glasses he had given her. Every object was being wrapped with the exquisite care and attention to detail that Kitty took with all her things. Tissue paper, bubble- wrap, a label, neat blue lettering: ‘Jacobite Spiral Stem, circa 1740’.
This was Kitty’s fingerprint. The radio operator’s ‘fist’ transmitting codes from the field. And, if luck held and your agent was a brave and resourceful spirit, its stream of Morse could be heard welling up through the betrayals and deaths. Reliable and strong.
Kitty did not look up. ‘What do you want, Julian?’ To keep up her courage, she wrapped a second glass and bedded it down in the packing case. Packing was easy. Laying up difficult memories was less so. But she was getting better. Every day was a little easier.
‘I’ve brought over some of the things you left behind.’ Julian held up a couple of bags.
Kitty did not stop what she was doing. ‘Could you put them over there? I’m afraid I’m a bit pushed so I can’t offer you anything.’
He did as she told him. Covertly, she cast him a quick look. Just to see. Just to remember. He seemed… troubled.
‘Kitty, are you sure you’re doing the right thing? I’m very grateful you’ve bought one of the houses. But to live there?’
She hunkered back on her heels. ‘Did I hear that right? From the great proselytizer for Homes for People?’ She
