Here.” She pointed to her stomach. “Mum says it’s just because I need to eat but I’m not hungry, you know?”
He did. He knew all about hollow. He sometimes felt he was hollow incarnate.
“And I can’t think about the vicar,” she said. “Mostly, I can’t think about anything.” She squinted at the road. “At least we have the snow. It’s something to look at. For now.”
“It is.” He nodded, tapped her knee, and continued on his way, turning down the Clitheroe Road, concentrating on the walking, putting his energy into that effort rather than into thought.
The going was easier on the Clitheroe Road than it had been on the way into the village. More than one person had forged through the snow, making the walk out to the church, it seemed. He passed two of them — the Londoners — a short distance from the primary school. They walked slowly, heads together in conversation. They looked up only briefl y as he passed.
He felt a quick stab of sadness at the sight of them. Men and women together, talking and touching, promised to cause him unending grief in the coming years. The object was not to care any longer. He wasn’t quite sure if he’d be able to manage it without seeking relief.
Which is why he was out walking in the fi rst place, pushing steadily forward and telling himself that he was merely going to check on the Hall. The exercise was good, the sun was out, he needed the air. But the snow was deep beyond the church, so when he fi nally reached the lodge, he hung about for five minutes just catching his breath.
“Bit of a rest,” he assured himself, and he scrutinised the windows one after the other, looking for movement behind the curtains.
She hadn’t been to the pub for the last two nights. He’d sat and waited until the last possible moment, when Ben Wragg called time and Dora bustled through picking up glasses. He knew that once half past nine arrived, it wasn’t very likely that she’d pop in. But still he waited and dreamed his dreams.
He was dreaming them still when the front door opened and Polly walked out. She started when she saw him. He took an eager step her way. She had a basket over her arm and she was wrapped head to toe in wool and scarves.
“Heading to the village?” he asked. “I’ve just been to the Hall. Shall I walk with you, Polly?”
She came to join him and looked up the lane where the snow lay, pristine and betraying. “Fly there, did you?” she asked.
He fished in his jacket for his leather pouch. “I was going there, actually, not coming back. Out for a walk. Beautiful day.”
Some of the tobacco spilled onto the snow. She watched it fall and appeared to be studying it. He saw that she had bruised her face somehow. A crescent of purple on the cream of her skin was going yellow at the edges as it began to heal.
“You’ve not been at the pub. Busy?”
She nodded, still examining the speckled snow.
“I’ve missed you. Chatting with you and the like. But of course, you’ve got things to do. People to see. I understand that. A girl like you. Still, I wondered where you were. Silly, but there it is.”
She adjusted the basket on her arm.
“I heard it’s resolved. Cotes Hall. What happened to the vicar. Did you know? You’re in the clear. And that’s good news, isn’t it? All things considered.”
She made no reply. She wore black gloves with a hole at the wrist. He wished she’d remove them so he could look at her hands. Warm them, even. Warm her as well.
He said in a burst, “I think about you, Polly. All the time. Day and night. You’re what keeps me going. You know that, don’t you? I’m not good at hiding things. I can’t hide this. You see what I’m feeling. You do see it, don’t you? You’ve seen it from the fi rst.”
She’d wound a purple scarf round her head, and she pulled it closer to her face as if to hide it. She kept her head bent. She reminded him of someone in prayer.
He said, “We’re both lonely, aren’t we? We both need someone. I want you, Polly. I know it can’t be perfect, not with the way things are in my life, but it can be something. It can be special. I swear I can make it good for you. If you’ll let me.”
She raised her head and looked at him curiously. He felt his armpits sweating. He said, “I’m saying it wrong, aren’t I? That’s why it’s a muddle. I’m saying it backwards. I’m in love with you, Polly.”
“It’s not a muddle,” she said. “You’re not saying it backwards.”
His heart opened with joy. “Then—”
“You’re just not saying it all.”
“What more is there to say? I love you. I want you. I’ll make it good if you’ll only—”
“Ignore the fact that you have a wife.” She shook her head. “Go home with you, Brendan. Take care of Miss Becky. Lie in your own bed. Stop sniffing round mine.”
She nodded sharply — dismissal, good morning, whatever he wanted to take it for— and set off towards the village.
“Polly!”
She turned back. Her face was stony. She wouldn’t be touched. But he
“Don’t we all need something.” She walked away.
Colin saw her pass. She was a whimsical vision of colour against a backdrop of white. Purple scarf, navy coat, red trousers, brown boots. She was carrying a basket and ploughing steadily along the far side of the road.
She didn’t look his way. She would have at one time. She would have ventured a surreptitious glance at his house, and if by chance he was working in the front garden or tinkering with the car, she would have crossed the road with an excuse to talk. Hear about the dog trials in Lancaster, Colin? How’s your dad feeling? What’d the vet have to say about Leo’s eyes?
Now she made a project out of looking straight ahead. The other side of the road, the houses that lined it, and particularly his simply didn’t exist. It was just as well. She was saving them both. Had she turned her head and caught him watching her from the kitchen window, he might have felt something. And so far, he’d managed to keep himself from feeling anything at all.
He’d gone through the motions of the morning: making coffee, shaving, feeding the dog, pouring himself a bowl of cornflakes, slicing a banana, raining sugar on top, and dousing the mixture thoroughly with milk. He’d even sat at the table with the bowl in front of him. He’d even gone so far as to dip the spoon into it. He’d even lifted the spoon to his lips. Twice. But he was unable to eat.
He’d held her hand but it was dead weight in his. He’d said her name. He was unsure what to call her — this JulietSusanna that the London detective claimed she was — but he needed all the same to call her something in an effort to bring her back to him again.
She wasn’t really there, he discovered. The shell of her was, the body he had worshipped with his own, but the interior substance of her rode up ahead in the other Range Rover, trying to calm her daughter’s fears and looking for the courage to say goodbye.
He strengthened his grip on her. She said in a voice without depth or timbre, “The elephant.”
He struggled to understand. The elephant. Why? Why here? Why now? What was she telling him? What was it that he should know about elephants? That they never forget? That she never would? That she still reached out to him for rescue from the quicksand of her despair? The elephant.
And then oddly, as if they communicated in an English that meant something only to them, Inspector Lynley answered her. “Is it in the Opel?”
She said, “I told her Punkin or the elephant. You must decide, darling.”
He said, “I’ll see that she gets it, Mrs. Spence.”
And that was all. Colin willed her to respond to the pressure of his fingers. Her hand never moved, she never grasped his. She simply took herself to a place of dying.
He understood that now. He was there himself. At first, it seemed he’d begun the process when Lynley had laid the facts before him. At first, it seemed he’d continued to decay throughout the interminable passing of the
