Midnight is a Lonely Place

XLVI

The heavy ornate brooch was solid silver. A crude native design, but it had been his; the Briton’s. He had known it all along. Bending over her he tore it from her gown and pinned it onto his own cloak with a sneer of triumph. Stupid bitch. Had she thought to frighten him with her curses? Did she really think she could pursue him into eternity?

He stood looking down at her for a moment, wondering how he could have loved her so much, making no attempt to draw the sword out of her body, anger and hatred boiling in his veins like vitriol, then he stooped and picking her up under the arms he dragged her towards the edge of the marsh. One thing he could do for her, sweet wife of his, companion of his bed, mate of his loins, mother of his son – send her to Hades with her seducer. With a massive heave he lifted her from the ground and hurled her a few feet into the marsh, watching with satisfaction as her body fell almost over the spot where her lover had disappeared. She lay there for a while, her blue gown spread across the mud, the sword still protruding from her body, her hair a splash of auburn in the light of the rising sun, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, she began to sink.

Hands on hips he watched, a sneer curling his lip. Vengeance; sweet, healing vengeance. And no one would ever know. Slowly the clouds were drawing back; the sky was turning blue. It was going to be a beautiful day. He put his hand to his belt and felt for the dagger he wore there, opposite the empty sheath which had held his sword. Taking the hilt between his fingers he stroked it for a moment, then he drew it out, feeling the weight and balance of a well-loved, trusted weapon.

Then he turned towards the priests.

‘Are you and Alison going to work on your projects together today, Sue?’ Cissy Farnborough looked at the top of her daughter’s head, which was all she could see as the girl sat at the table, her face buried in a fat paperback.

Don’t read at table. She wanted to say it, but how could she with Joe sitting there on the far side of the cornflakes packet, as deeply buried in the Sunday Telegraph. She sighed. ‘Sue!’ she tried again, louder this time, more irritated. ‘Did you hear what I said?’

Sue looked up. Her unbrushed hair stood out round her head like a disorganised halo; her nightshirt, adorned with a particularly ugly picture of some hirsute pop star’s face in close up, was crumpled and distinctly grubby. ‘I don’t know what she’s doing. She missed school last week. I’ll ring her later,’ she said ungraciously.

‘Please do. I should like to know if there is someone extra for lunch.’

‘You always make too much anyway,’ Sue commented tartly. She buried herself back in her book. Cissy pursed her lips. She turned to the kettle and switching it on, reached for the jar of coffee. Her husband and her daughter had tea at breakfast, and as usual Joe had insisted on a full, cooked, death-by-cholesterol blow out. She shuddered as she glanced at the greasy frying pan. He wouldn’t even let her grill his bacon. ‘I work for my living, woman,’ he had growled when she suggested a slight moderation to his diet. ‘These namby pamby doctors don’t know anything about life on the land. They’re writing for city folk; desk pilots. Men who never shift their backsides off their chairs from one end of the month to the other. They should try and do some real work. See what that does for them!’ She had given up. It was a well worn theme. A combination of rural arrogance and resentment against her father, who had been an accountant in London before he retired. Spooning the coffee into her cup she stirred it thoughtfully, rehearsing her own dissatisfaction silently as she turned to look out of the window. She had married beneath her; both her parents had thought so. And unfortunately they had made no secret of their opinion. She had defended Joe, stuck up for him, passionately supported him, slept with him and finally married him, and of course they had been right. He had gone to a minor public school in Suffolk but he was not what she would call educated; he was not interested in anything but the farm; he never read anything except the Sunday newspapers and he despised education in others – especially his wife. Susie was different. Nothing was too good for her, but even there he never sup ported Cissy when she tried to make the child do her homework. ‘Leave the girl alone,’ he would say impatiently every time Cissy tried to get Sue to switch off her Walkman or the television and concentrate on work. ‘She’s pretty. She’ll find herself a man soon enough. She doesn’t need all this crap!’

‘There’s no marmalade, Ciss!’ Joe emerged from the paper looking wounded, the lid of the jar in his hand.

‘Blast!’ Cissy mouthed the word silently. Why, why, why did he always manage to find fault. Why was there always something she had forgotten?

‘Don’t call me Ciss,’ she snapped back. Cecilia Louise. That was what her parents had christened her. But Joe had never called her Cecilia in his life. At first she had thought it funny to be called Cissy, but the joke had soon palled. Now it just added to the weight of resentment.

‘Go and ring Alison now.’ She turned on Sue as always, her anger and helplessness directed against her daughter instead of its true target. ‘And get dressed. You look like a slut.’

To her surprise Sue got up at once, and she saw Joe glance at her surreptitiously from behind the paper. Perhaps she had spoken more forcefully than she had realised.

‘I will put marmalade on the list,’ she said calmly. ‘You will have to wait until I go to the shops again. There’s plenty of jam in the pantry.’ She smiled at her husband. ‘Or Marmite.’ She saw him shudder visibly, but to her surprise he said nothing. Meekly he larded his toast with butter and ate it plain. Well, if that was supposed to make her feel guilty it was not going to work. What were another few ounces of butter going to matter after the load of fat he had ladled into his body over the years?

She turned and looked out of the kitchen window. It was vile outside. The sky was almost dark even though it was after nine. The wind from the east was flattening the trees in the orchard beyond the kitchen garden, and there were thin, melting drifts of snow over the grass. She shivered. It was still sleeting. On the bird table outside the window a flock of small birds fought over the bowl of melted fat and seed she had put out for them. The only thing about Joe’s diet which did please her was the amount of fat which dripped from his food and which she could make into bird pudding. She half smiled as she watched two robins squabbling with some sparrows. On the snowy grass beneath the bird table about fifty small birds foraged about for the seed she had scattered there.

‘Mum! Their phone’s out of order.’ A querulous wail came from Sue as she slammed down the receiver. ‘Hell and shit and fuck!’

Joe looked up. ‘Go to your room, Susan,’ he bellowed.

‘But Dad. Allie’s got my notes. I’ve got to speak to her.’

‘I don’t care what she’s got.’ Something had at last pierced his lethargy. ‘No child of mine uses language like that in my house.’

Cissy sipped her coffee, for once uninvolved. Let them work it out. Sue’s friendship with Alison was one she cultivated assiduously. The Lindseys were a pleasant family. Well spoken; well educated. Their lack of money was not their fault – poor Roger was so ill – but still Diana managed to run that house with a grace and style which Cissy envied.

She turned away from the window and surveyed the thunderous scene at the table. ‘I’ll drive you down to Redall Farmhouse when I’ve put the lunch on,’ she said peaceably. ‘Then you can collect your notes and Allie can come back with us if she wants. In fact, they all can. I’ve got a huge joint this week. As you say, there will be plenty for everyone and it would be nice to have them over. In weather like this it’s not as though anyone can be doing anything outside.’ She smiled at her husband and her daughter, suddenly cheerful. Her depression had lifted as swiftly as it had fallen. The Lindseys would cheer them all up.