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"Well, he said a man could be nearly impotent and yet be able enough to give a woman a child. Impotency didn't mean he ... well, he wasn't fertile ... These things have been in me mind a lot lately and I couldn't say anything to Grace. And if it was his you wouldn't feel so badly about the lad's rudeness, now would you?"

The whisky still remained untouched in Andrew's hand. He seemed to have forgotten it; he even seemed to have forgotten Aggie for the moment; and then, with

a sudden lift of his arm, he threw off the drink in one go and put the glass down.

"I'd rather go on thinking he was mine even if he hated me guts, Aunt Aggie."

"Aye, I suppose you would ... it's only natural. There ... I was just trying to ease you."

He touched her hand.

"I know, I know."

So the pattern of life was resumed, dominated by the circumstances that their love had created. Andrew went to work once again on Tarrant's farm with the promise of promotion . "Perhaps to manager, who knew?" Mr. Tarrant's own words.

Grace, once the jigsaw had fallen back into place again, tried to accept the situation. She had Andrew and that was all that mattered, she told herself. For days her mind would stay at a level of acceptance, until some subtlety of Donald's would send it spiralling upwards into a spasm of aggressiveness and hatred. One such occasion was when she came across him holding Jane high above his head; he was wriggling her fat body between his big white hands as he chanted over and over again, "Daddy's girl, Daddy's girl," only to break off and ask the question of the laughing face, "Whose girl are you?" and then to give the answer, "You're Daddy's girl." It was a form of indoctrination.

She found the scene sickening, even sinister. There was something almost unclean in his insistence to lay claim to the children, especially this last one. She asked herself time and again how, knowing that the child wasn't his, he could try to project himself into her mind as her father. The words hypocrite and mealy-mouthed had ceased to have any meaning with reference to him. His attitude, his enure approach to life, needed words and exclamations that she herself was not capable of giving. She only knew that more and more proximity with him

repulsed her. She shrank inwardly from him as if from something unclean. His sexlessness was more repulsive in its way than the extremes of a lecherous old man, and the miming of a father-figure more frightening than mad fantasy, and she was experiencing mad fantasy at nights now. In spite of Andrew's return or perhaps because of it, because he was so near and yet so far her nights were filled with dreams, mad fantastic dreams, dreams that she was wallowing among reptiles, flying, armless, legless, slithering white bodies, eyeless, mouth less that turned themselves into hands, great soft white hands belonging to neither man, woman, nor child.

Then there was added to the complexity of her life something that was both irritating, and in a way humiliating, for Peggy Mather started to set her cap at Andrew. Openly, blatantly, she waylaid him, and openly she was rebuffed. As Adelaide Toole now married to her cousin had waited for him on the road as he returned from Tarrant's, so now, on certain evenings, did Peggy Mather. And as time went on and she made no headway the atmosphere in the kitchen suffered.

When they were together at Aggie's, Andrew would laugh about the situation with regards to Peggy Mather, as also did Aggie in an endeavour to make Grace see the funny side of it. But this Grace could not do; although Andrew was still only a farm-worker and she felt no shame in loving him, the fact that she was in a way contesting with a woman like Peggy Mather hurt her pride.

And then there was the cottage. She had never hood winked herself as to the reason why she had bought the cottage from Aggie. When it had failed to serve the purpose of a refuge for her and the children, she could have forgotten about it, but no, she determined to buy it, to make it her own, and not with the intention of it being a holiday home for the children. It was to be a place where she could be with Andrew alone for days, but strangely, except on two occasions, it never worked out like that. Andrew first saw the cottage during the second week after he was demobilised, when, accompanied by Aggie, he took his mother there for a short holiday.

From that time on it became known in the village that Mrs. Maclntyre liked, every now and again, to visit her sister in Devon. If during this time the vicar's wife went away for a week-end or a day or so to Harrogate or Whitley Bay with her aunt, who in their wildest dreams would connect the two incidents? Donald? Only once did he phone the hotel in Harrogate, and then Aggie answered him. Grace had gone on a day's coach tour, she herself was a little off colour. Late that night Grace phoned the house . and from the hotel in Harrogate.

The strains that this particular way of life imposed on her began to show as the months mounted and fell into years, and the stolen hours with Andrew seemed to have less power as a soothing salve as time went on. As the children grew, the silent battle for their love between her and Donald grew more intense. There were days when they did not exchange a word, not even at mealtimes, but communicated with each other through the children.

"Go and tell Mammy so and so. Go and tell Daddy this or that." This form of strategy hoodwinked practically everybody except David Cooper.

In the village the parson's wife was known as 'a nervy piece', which was odd, they said, when the vicar himself was such a jolly chap, and so fond of the hairns . by, he was fond of them hairns.

At one period David Cooper felt bound to warn her of where she was heading.

"The brain is like a boil, Grace," he said.

"Give it enough anxiety poultices, and it will come to a head and burst."

The boil in Grace's brain took ten years to reach this point, and when finally it did burst it was not through the application of a heavy poultice but through what could be termed a light dressing in the form of Donald repeating a statement he had made many years previously . he was going to engage a part-time gardener. It was on an August afternoon in 1957 that Donald made this statement, but it was preceded earlier in the day by an incident with Stephen.

The boy had locked his door, and when Grace went to go into his room and found the door shut against her she asked for an explanation.

Stephen, a slim, tall youth, still looking like neither his father, nor his supposed father, nor yet herself, told her that Donald had suggested him locking his door because he was being pestered by his sisters and it prevented him from getting down to study.

"Very well," she said, 'then leave the key where I can get it. Peggy must clean the room and I want to see to your school things. "

When with a coolness that could have been termed insolence he answered her with, "I'm not leaving it about, Peggy can come and ask for it,"

she suddenly screamed at him, "Stephen!"

Stephen, his face paler even than usual, was standing looking at her with a frightened look in his eyes when Donald bounced up the stairs.

"What's the matter?" He glanced quickly from one to the other. Then, his gaze coming to rest on Grace and his voice dropping into a tone of reprimand, he said, "Screaming like that! What is the matter?"

"It is about the key, Father. I locked the door."

"Oh! Really!"

The vicar closed his eyes for a moment. Then, looking at Stephen, he said quietly, "Leave it to me," and indicated that the boy should go downstairs. And he waited a moment before looking at Grace again.

Then, still in a subdued tone, he said, "Have you no control, yelling like that? Aren't you aware that Beatrice has two friends in the garden? What will they think?"

Her tone was as low as his but of a different quality as she hissed back at him, "I don't care what they think. Do you hear? I just don't care what they think."

"Well, you've got to care, especially what ... what ours think. They are young people growing up, full of impressions, they are--' " Oh, my God! Be quiet before I .

I .

She choked, then gasped, "Full of impressions! Yes, they are full of impressions. And what have you done with their impressions over the years?" She was thrusting her face up to him now.

"I've just seen the result of your impressions. My son dislikes me....

Impressions ... impressions .. my son dislikes me. Do you hear? He was coolly insolent to me. He was showing me one impression you have given him of me."

Donald, his face stiff and white, looked back at her, and his words were still quiet as he went on, "I am not going to argue with you, now or at any other time. That's what you want, isn't it, to brawl and argue. Splash your emotions all round the house for everybody to hear.

I never have argued and I'm not going to start. The only thing I'm going to say is that, whatever your son thinks of you, I'm sure you deserve it. "

As she watched him walk away there came a strong animal desire in her to leap on his back and bear him to the ground. She rushed into her room and, gripping the bed-rail, stood looking down on to the bed. He had achieved what he had set out to do: made her son dislike her, and without saying a word against her, for he was too clever to malign her.

He had done that: turned her son against her. She wanted to run to Andrew, just run

to him and look at him and become calm. Andrew could make her feel calm. But Andrew was in Morpeth, at the market with the cattle.

It was nearly two hours later when she went downstairs and into the dining-room, and saw through the. open French window that Peggy had set the tea near the willow tree. In the far distance behind the line of firs she could hear voices coming from the tennis court, a recent addition to the garden. She was about to step on to the paved terrace when she saw Donald coming across from the court accompanied by a young man. She recognised him as Gerald Spencer, the brother of Beatrice's school friend who lived in Morpeth. He was in some car business. She didn't like him, he was too brash, but his sister seemed a nice girl.

The tennis players now came round the trees, Beatrice and her friend, Stephen and Jane, and Jane as usual was not walking but hopping and dancing from one foot to the other, waving her racket over her head.

And now she threw it up in the air yelling, "Mammy! Mammy!

We beat them, Joyce and I beat them. " She raced across the lawn and did a war dance in front of Grace, and Grace, putting her hand out, said, " Jane, stop a minute. " She was listening to what Donald was saying to the young man.

Donald's arms were stretched wide and he was saying, "Not for love or money, they can make so much more in factories, you know. I've been without help now for nearly three weeks and it's beginning to look like it." He gave his ha-ha of a laugh.

"I'm not much of a gardener. I did try my best during the war, but, truthfully speaking, I'm not a man of the soil." Again there was the ha-ha. At this point he turned a chair round for the guest and looked towards Grace, yet as she stepped across the terrace he continued as if unaware of her presence, "I'll get a part-time man as I did before the war, just a few hours a week, and things went very smoothly then."

"If you are anything like we are, you'll find the part- time ones as difficult to come by as the full-time ones." The young man buttoned up his coat, then unbuttoned it. If added an air of authority to his words.

Donald was handing the guest a sandwich as he replied, "Oh, well, you know, you're in the town and we're in the country. People are different in the country. Oh' he turned his head between Grace and the young man " I forgot. You have met my wife, haven't you? Yes, of course you have. What I mean is, you've seen each other today? "

The young man shook his head in denial and smiled, but Grace remained still. Somehow she was waiting for Donald to go on and he did. As she poured the tea out he sat down on the left of her and, stretching out his legs, carried on the conversation, addressing her through the guest this time.

"I thought of asking Andrew Maclntyre again," he said.

That was all.

The cup Grace had in her hand clattered to the tray, bringing all eyes to her, and as Donald's hand came out to rectify the damage she smacked it aside and, getting up from the chair, rushed into the dining-room.

But she hadn't reached the hall before he was behind her.

"Grace!" It was an order and not a quiet one now. She took no notice but sprang up the stairs, and when from the foot his voice cried again,

"Wait! Do you hear me? Come here this minute!" she turned. She was at the head of the stairs now, and looking down on his upturned, outraged countenance, she cried, "You ... I You ... I' The saliva was spluttering from her lips.

"You'll bring Andrew Maclntyre back as your gardener. With just a lift of your little finger you'll bring Andrew Maclntyre ... '

"Grace!"

"To hell with you! You try to stop me talking, go on!" Her voice was rising.

"You swine! You swine of a parson! You cruel, sadistic, unnatural swine."

She saw him bounding toward her, taking two stairs at a time, and when he gripped her by the shoulders she struggled to free herself, yelling now, screaming now, mouthfuls of abuse. The boil had burst. She was on the bed and he had one hand over her mouth while with the other he pinned her shoulder to the mattress. Her straining, staring eyes saw the amazed faces of the children in the doorway, and when Donald cried,

"Get away and close that door!" she saw Beatrice and Jane disappear, but not Stephen. Staring-eyed she watched him moving timorously towards the bed and heard Donald cry angrily, "Get out of here at once."

Donald did not look at the boy, and when he realised that Stephen was not obeying him he yelled, "Get out! Do you hear? Go on, get out...

Ring Uncle David ... now, at once."

As she struggled to draw breath into her panting lungs through her nostrils she was aware that something had burst in her head. It was in a way a relief. Words were still pouring into her mouth but she couldn't get them out. Cunningly now she became calm, and when she stopped struggling Donald slowly relieved the pressure on her mouth and shoulder. She waited, watching the seconds as it were, waiting to pick the right one. When it arrived she gave a leap and was free from his hands and in a second was on the other side of the bed and the poison from the boil was once again flowing. But now it was more terrifying, for she was laughing at it, and him. "The gentle parson. Dear, dear Vicar. Dus yer mother want any coke?