Chris nodded, chewing. “The jam is wonderful. Did you make it?”
“Laura does jams, actually, and Vivian. I mostly do vegetables.”
“Are those for today?” Chris asked, indicating some preserving jars and large cooking pots lined up on the counter.
“Oh, yes. The garden’s going all out. We put up as much as we can. Plenty of laundry for today, too.”
“I’ve done that. I can help.”
“Laundry or preserving?”
“Either.” Chris shrugged. “Some of it’s my laundry anyway.”
“You’ve done preserving?”
“Sure, on the farm in Breton.”
Fiona brought the pan over and scraped the cooked eggs out onto Chris’s plate, smiling. “Generally we keep the men out of the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” He took a deep breath through his nose over the plate of food. “Gosh, that’s nice. I haven’t had a hot breakfast in more than a week.”
“What did you have for breakfast?” Preston asked.
“Hmm, whatever I could come up with,” Chris said. “I’ve been on the road.”
“Did you really walk for a whole week?”
“Most of a week I did.”
Preston looked suitably impressed. “Your hair sure is long,” was the boy’s next observance. “Dad showed us some pictures last night, but your hair was short.”
“Do you think I should cut it?”
“Aunt Laura cuts my hair. She cuts everybody’s hair.”
“Goodness, Preston,” Fiona said. “Let Chris eat his breakfast.” Preston went back to his porridge. “I’ll be right back,” Fiona said to Chris. She went out toward the stairs.
“Dad says you’re very sad,” Preston remarked. Ian nudged him and made a face at him.
Chris took a bite of eggs so he wouldn’t have to answer right away.
“Are you sad?”
“Sometimes,” Chris said.
“Why?”
Chris knew it was coming, but he felt no sudden grief, not anymore. It had shocked him, in Breton, that moment in the barn—
was it really less than a fortnight ago?
—when he had discovered just how much it had faded, without him realizing it. He had come to accept its waning importance since then. In some ways, it was a relief, but not in others.
“My little girl died, and her mummy, too.” His voice worked just fine. A year ago he would not have been able to say that.
Preston frowned a bit and nodded. “Yes, Dad was very sad when his little girl died.”
This gave Chris a start. “
Your
dad’s little girl?” He glanced at Ian, who sat watching silently.
“Yes,” Preston said brightly. “He found her in Frome, and she didn’t have a mummy or daddy, so he brought her home to live with us, but she got sick and died, and now she’s in the churchyard with Anthony and Bettina. Her name was Alice.”
Alice was Brian’s mother’s name. What had he said to Brian at the bus station?
You look like you’ve got it easy.
A wave of unexpected guilt washed over Chris. Anthony and Bettina were Colin’s children, if he remembered right. The happy family picture was beginning to fall apart. He began to think about the holes, about who was missing.
Fiona came back into the room in the silence that followed. “You boys can get started on your chores now. Dishes in the sink, please.”
Preston complained, but Ian got up wordlessly, gathered his dishes, and took them to the sink. Preston followed him out.
Fiona sat down on the edge of the chair next to Chris. “I hope they didn’t bother you.”
“No, not at all.” Chris wondered if he should mention what Preston had told him. But he forgot about it as Fiona held out her hand.
“I thought you might like to have this.” She held a small framed photo. Chris reached out to take it. The rest of the world slowed and stopped as he stared at the trio.
It was a studio shot, taken when the baby was about two months old. She wore a frilly white dress embroidered with tiny roses. Sophie, holding her, wore a pink sweater that also had a pattern of roses. The Chris in the photo smiled down at his daughter as the baby grasped his finger. His sweater was maroon, and the background a deep blue. Sophie was the only one looking at the camera. Her smile radiated happiness and contentment. Chris inhaled a shallow breath and stared at her face, trying to burn it into his brain, trying to replace the image that most often intruded into his thoughts, the image of her as he left her for the last time at the airport, cradling little Rosie in a carrier against her chest, stroking the soft, silky hair with one hand as she held on to his hand with the other, trying not to cry. As if she’d known something would go wrong.
“I sent you this?” Chris said, pulling himself back before he sank too deep.
Fiona nodded. “Yes, the last thing I heard from you, I think, just before that last Christmas. I was always so glad that you and I kept in touch.”
“They died right at the start,” Chris said, then gave her a brief summary of those days. “By the time I got home, Rosie was gone. They must have caught it at the airport. I was with Sophie at the end, but I don’t know if she knew it.”
Fiona laid her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry, Chris.”
“It was a long time ago, now. I’ve learned to deal with it.” He kept staring at the picture. “Gosh, look at her. Thank you for this. I haven’t any other.”
“I thought you mightn’t.”
“I did have some pictures, and other things, but over the years, things got lost.”
“Jon should have some, shouldn’t he?”
“Yes, he mentioned it. He gave me a picture of us boys and Mum last night. I’ll have to ask him.” He put the portrait down, pulled his eyes away from it. “My eggs are getting cold.” He took a bite.
Fiona got up from the chair. “Do you want some tea?” she asked. “The local stuff, not the real stuff. We’re saving the real stuff for a proper tea this afternoon.”
“Just water is fine, thanks.”
Footsteps sounded on the flagstones outside, and then Ian burst into the kitchen, more animated than Chris had yet seen him.
“Jon’s coming with the constable,” he said to his mother. Preston followed him in, and they both looked over at Chris, apparently wondering what sort of trouble he might be in if the constable was coming.
Fiona shooed them back out the door, both of them protesting, and turned to Chris with a furrowed brow. “You’ll need your card, I expect.”
“I have it.”
He finished his eggs before they came in. Fiona went to the sink, began washing the boys’ dishes, and did not go to the door to greet them.
Jon came in first. The constable followed: a tall, thin man, not the burly type one would expect. He wore tweeds—no uniform or hat—and his thinning hair stood out in a fluff about his head. He carried himself rigidly and had an air of self-importance.
“Ah, good, you’re up,” Jon said to Chris with a half-smile. “The constable here has come to have a word with you. Constable, my brother, Chris Price.” He made an exaggerated sweep of his arm in Chris’s direction. Chris chewed and swallowed while he stood. He pulled his green blood-test card out of his back pocket and held it out to the constable.
“Thank you, sir,” the man said, stepping forward to take it. He turned toward Fiona. “Mrs. Wolcott.” Chris thought he would have tipped his cap if he’d had one.
“Constable,” she said, her face expressionless.
The man scrutinized Chris’s card the way the bus driver had done and seemed almost disappointed when he could find no fault with it. He handed it back to Chris.
“Pleased to meet you, sir.” He pulled out a small notebook and pencil. “I just have a few questions. What was your last place of residence?”
“Really, Mr. Stokes, it’s Sunday,” Fiona said. “He only just got here last night. He can see the registrar tomorrow, can’t he?”
Mr. Stokes turned to look at her. “It is within my line of duty to make inquiries of new arrivals.” His tone did not invite discussion. Fiona turned back to the sink.
“Now then, Mr. Price, your last place of residence?”
“Breton, near Portsmouth.”
The constable made a note. “And how long were you there?”
“About nine months.”
“Was there an outbreak in Breton during that time?”
“No.”
Mr. Stokes nodded, jotted something down. “Good. Now, is this a visit or do you plan to relocate?”
“Relocate,” Jon said, as if there should be no question, and after a glance at his brother, Chris nodded.
“You don’t have any illegal or contraband items, such as drugs or firearms, eh?” the constable asked.
“No,” Chris said, aware of Jon’s eyes on him.
“That will do, then. You’ll need to see the registrar tomorrow, and you’ll need another blood test in a fortnight.” He tucked his pencil and book into a pocket.
“Why would he need another test?” Fiona asked.
“I can request one if I feel it’s necessary,” the constable said. “And in view of past...incidents, I am doing that.”
Fiona pressed her lips tightly together and looked away.
“It’s not a problem,” Chris said. “I’ll get another test in a fortnight. Do I need to go into Bath for that?”
“Frome or Westbury will do as well. I’ll send the registrar up to see you in the morning. And perhaps you would be good enough to keep to the grounds here until your next test, eh? I’ll not impose a strict quarantine on you. I’m sure that’s not necessary.”
Jon drew in his breath as if he were about to say something, but Chris cut him off.
“Might I visit the churchyard?”
“Ah, well, yes, I suppose that would be all right. Avoid Sunday services, if you would?”
“Yes, sir,” Chris said. “Of course.”
“Thank you for your time, then. I’ll be off.” The constable nodded at Fiona. “Mrs. Wolcott.” She did not reply. Jon walked him to the door and almost slammed it after he left.
Chris could tell that Fiona wanted to say something, but she bit her lip and stood at the sink with arms folded.
“Sorry about that,” Jon said to Chris. “He takes his job overseriously.”
Chris folded his own arms. “In Portsmouth they locked me up for a fortnight. That’s why I didn’t register in Bath.” They both looked at him with mouths open. “It’s a lot different in other places. Some places won’t let you stay at all. Makes no difference if you’re someone’s relative or not.”
The door opened. Alan and Vivian came in. They had changed into work clothes. Vivian had an apron over her arm.
“What did the constable want?” Alan asked.
“He very kindly did not put Chris in quarantine,” Fiona said.
“I should think not!” Vivian said. “He can’t do that, can he?”
“Of course he can, Viv,” Alan said.
“I’m not supposed to wander about,” Chris said.
“Some welcoming committee, eh?” Alan said, shaking his head.
“Chris says some places lock you up for a fortnight,” Jon told them.
“That’s still going on?” Alan asked Chris.
Chris nodded. “Oh, yes. They nabbed me in Portsmouth. And I got run out of a town on my way here, just last week. I had a valid card and coupons and money, but they wouldn’t sell me any food and ran me out of town.”
“Suspicion and fear and ignorance,” Fiona said, shaking her head. “And it gets worse again every time there’s an outbreak somewhere.”
“Is that often?” Chris asked. He knew there’d been an outbreak in Portsmouth a few months before he’d arrived, but that was all he’d heard of.
“There are small ones every few months,” Alan told him. “We hear about them on the radio, but there hasn’t been anything around here for a couple of years.”
“Do you remember at the beginning, how they said it would run its course, then disappear?” Chris said. “Were they saying that here? They said that in the States.”
“Yes, they said that here, too,” Jon replied, with some bitterness in his voice. “The advice was to stay where you were, avoid contact when you could, ration your food to survive, and in the spring everything would be okay.”
“And we’ve still got it,” Alan said. “You never know where it will hit next.”
“But at least it’s not like that first winter,” Fiona said.
“They never had much of it at all in Breton, apparently,” Chris told them.
“Did they take drastic measures to keep it out?” Alan asked.
“I don’t know, didn’t talk about it that much, really.”
“Chris says he knows all about preserving,” Fiona said, pointedly changing the subject. “And laundry.” She grinned at him.
“Ah, I said I could
help
,” he corrected her. “Actually, once I was well enough for the heavy work, they kicked me out of the kitchen.”
“How were you ill?” Jon asked him. Everyone else seemed interested, too.
“Bronchitis, or some sort of chest infection, I suppose. It was going around the warehouse in Portsmouth where I worked. I coughed so hard I cracked a rib or two.”
“And someone there sent you to Breton?” Fiona asked. “They weren’t worried about catching it?”
“Well, I’d seen a doctor, wasn’t contagious...just needed some time to rest up and let the ribs heal.”
No one said it, but Chris saw it in their faces:
Why didn’t you come sooner?
He’d explained it to Jon, but it seemed a weak excuse, without the longer, deeper, darker reasons.
I was in therapy? No.
The boys came in then, saving him from further inquiries. Ian carried eggs in a wire basket like the one in Breton. They all trooped out to the garden to pick vegetables.
Not unexpectedly, Jon stuck close to Chris. While everyone else worked more or less independently, Jon was never more than a few steps away. Chris asked him questions about the workings of the farm, but Jon always countered with a question of his own about Breton.
“So, are there a lot of places without electricity still?” Jon asked, pausing with a bucket of beans in hand.
“They didn’t have it in Breton. I don’t know how widespread it is. Some places I passed through on the way here had it; some didn’t. Portsmouth had it, and Petersfield. London did, of course.”
“I see crews working on the lines between here and Frome. Always jobs to be had, I hear.”
Chris glanced up. “Have you tried to get a job? Or are you happy farming?”
Jon grunted. “Not much call for an estate agent anymore. I worked in an office for a while a few years ago. Endless lists of properties taken over and emptied out by the authorities. Inventories of personal belongings unclaimed and sent to Distribution Centers, all written out by hand in triplicate, because our office didn’t rate a precious manual typewriter. It started to give me nightmares.”