for the dead to return and, failing that, was waiting, as a lover waits, for death to come and get her.
Mrs Marsh could think of no suitable rebuke to fit such a case. ‘The coat is a bit big on me,’ she said uncertainly to Barbara, ‘but you’d look lovely in it.’
Lovely. Suddenly Barbara’s misery fell away. She would look lovely on Christmas Day. Hunter was coming. They would walk together up the hill to the old village and she would drink something sweet in the nice pub with the open fire and the genial landlord. Seb would come to find her and see her laughing at Hunter’s conversation and Hunter sitting a little too close. Then she would choose between them . . .
She put on the coat and straightened her shoulders.
‘You look lovely, Mummy,’ piped Kate.
‘A perfect fit,’ said Mrs Marsh.
Poor Mary was looking very plain, thought Barbara irrelevantly.
Mary was tired – so tired she felt she would crumble to ash at a touch, like a burnt message. Perhaps the Grim Reaper was after her in earnest now. Death had kept very close all year – taken Robin, friends, aunts, a cousin. Even the Pope had died twice that year. It had been like autumn for people.
‘I get very tired,’ she said decisively to Seb and Sam. She didn’t think they would want to follow her into her room and make conversation, but it was as well to be on the safe side.
Seb sat down in an armchair in the little front room, and Sam idled about the kitchen and hallway. All three people on the ground floor wondered with varying degrees of desperation how they were to survive the next few days.
‘Don’t touch, Sam darling,’ said his grandmother, coming downstairs.
Sam moved away from the arched and illuminated recess with its glass shelves of treasures – china shepherdesses, little bowls and netsuke – and they edged round each other.
‘Why don’t you go for a run in the Close before it gets dark?’ suggested Mrs Marsh. ‘Call on Evelyn and she’ll show you her alligator.’
She had no hope at all that Sam would do this and so wasn’t surprised when he didn’t. ‘Go and unpack your things,’ she said. ‘You’re sleeping in the same room as your father.’
No one but Kate was entirely pleased with the sleeping arrangements, but Sam was horrified. He was shy of looking at his father. Knowledge of the Thrush hung between them like soiled sheets.
‘Shleep on de shofa,’ he offered.
‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs Marsh, who had just replaced the still immaculate Tudor print covers with a rather cooler pattern of cream roses on a green ground to match the carpet.
‘Shleep on de floor,’ said Sam hopelessly.
‘Don’t be silly, Sam. There are two very comfortable beds in that room and you’ll sleep in one of them.’ She was glad she’d had daughters. Boys were too difficult.
The evening passed off quietly enough. It started early with a simple supper of omelettes and peas and toast, followed by stewed apricots and cream, which they all ate standing up in the kitchen, except for Mary and Seb, who had theirs on trays in the back and front rooms respectively. Sebastian had a little stilton too, out of a jar – an early Christmas present to a lady at the W.I., who hadn’t liked it at all and had passed it on to Mrs Marsh, knowing that she would have a man staying over the holiday.
Sebastian took his papers to the pub. Sam lay in the front room and watched television. Evelyn came across for company, and they all crowded into the kitchen and made the mince pies.
Mary thought about what Sam would doubtless describe as ‘birf ’n’ deaf’. Robin’s death, the sudden absolute cessation of vaulting, joyful life, seemed to her quite as astonishing and worthy of remark as that other more widely acclaimed and admired miracle, birth. Despite her anger, she thought that God deserved more notice for this extraordinary trick. Even inclined as she was to side in rebellion with the Son of the Morning, she couldn’t but
Mrs Marsh could think of no suitable rebuke to fit such a case. ‘The coat is a bit big on me,’ she said uncertainly to Barbara, ‘but you’d look lovely in it.’
Lovely. Suddenly Barbara’s misery fell away. She would look lovely on Christmas Day. Hunter was coming. They would walk together up the hill to the old village and she would drink something sweet in the nice pub with the open fire and the genial landlord. Seb would come to find her and see her laughing at Hunter’s conversation and Hunter sitting a little too close. Then she would choose between them . . .
She put on the coat and straightened her shoulders.
‘You look lovely, Mummy,’ piped Kate.
‘A perfect fit,’ said Mrs Marsh.
Poor Mary was looking very plain, thought Barbara irrelevantly.
Mary was tired – so tired she felt she would crumble to ash at a touch, like a burnt message. Perhaps the Grim Reaper was after her in earnest now. Death had kept very close all year – taken Robin, friends, aunts, a cousin. Even the Pope had died twice that year. It had been like autumn for people.
‘I get very tired,’ she said decisively to Seb and Sam. She didn’t think they would want to follow her into her room and make conversation, but it was as well to be on the safe side.
Seb sat down in an armchair in the little front room, and Sam idled about the kitchen and hallway. All three people on the ground floor wondered with varying degrees of desperation how they were to survive the next few days.
‘Don’t touch, Sam darling,’ said his grandmother, coming downstairs.
Sam moved away from the arched and illuminated recess with its glass shelves of treasures – china shepherdesses, little bowls and netsuke – and they edged round each other.
‘Why don’t you go for a run in the Close before it gets dark?’ suggested Mrs Marsh. ‘Call on Evelyn and she’ll show you her alligator.’
She had no hope at all that Sam would do this and so wasn’t surprised when he didn’t. ‘Go and unpack your things,’ she said. ‘You’re sleeping in the same room as your father.’
No one but Kate was entirely pleased with the sleeping arrangements, but Sam was horrified. He was shy of looking at his father. Knowledge of the Thrush hung between them like soiled sheets.
‘Shleep on de shofa,’ he offered.
‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs Marsh, who had just replaced the still immaculate Tudor print covers with a rather cooler pattern of cream roses on a green ground to match the carpet.
‘Shleep on de floor,’ said Sam hopelessly.
‘Don’t be silly, Sam. There are two very comfortable beds in that room and you’ll sleep in one of them.’ She was glad she’d had daughters. Boys were too difficult.
The evening passed off quietly enough. It started early with a simple supper of omelettes and peas and toast, followed by stewed apricots and cream, which they all ate standing up in the kitchen, except for Mary and Seb, who had theirs on trays in the back and front rooms respectively. Sebastian had a little stilton too, out of a jar – an early Christmas present to a lady at the W.I., who hadn’t liked it at all and had passed it on to Mrs Marsh, knowing that she would have a man staying over the holiday.
Sebastian took his papers to the pub. Sam lay in the front room and watched television. Evelyn came across for company, and they all crowded into the kitchen and made the mince pies.
Mary thought about what Sam would doubtless describe as ‘birf ’n’ deaf’. Robin’s death, the sudden absolute cessation of vaulting, joyful life, seemed to her quite as astonishing and worthy of remark as that other more widely acclaimed and admired miracle, birth. Despite her anger, she thought that God deserved more notice for this extraordinary trick. Even inclined as she was to side in rebellion with the Son of the Morning, she couldn’t but
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