The Snares of Death (15 page)

‘Suit yourselves.' They could tell that he was angry, but no one was willing to back down.

When Rhys and Nicholas had disappeared into the large farm- house, taking Bleddyn with them, Maggie and Gary were silent for a moment. ‘It makes me sick, the way everything has to be done to please that spoiled brat,' Maggie said at last, quietly but with intensity. ‘Just because he's got money, I suppose.'

‘Oh, he's not such a bad guy.' Gary stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ‘And he
is
only a kid. When I was his age –'

‘Yes, I know.' Maggie's voice was venomous. ‘Berkeley. The glory days. Sit-ins in the president's office, burning of draft cards. Life will never be quite so exciting again, will it, Gary?'

‘Well, all right, you don't have to get nasty.' He retreated into a hurt silence; Maggie slumped in the front seat.

After a few minutes she sat up suddenly. ‘This place is like a bloody concentration camp! It really gives me the creeps! We ought to
do
something, Gary. Something to leave our mark on Fielding Farms.'

‘Like what?'

She leaned over the back of the seat and regarded him with scorn. ‘Don't you have any backbone? Any imagination?'

Stung, he thought aloud, ‘Well, we could always paint something – some slogans or something – on the sides of the buildings. If we had any paint, that is.'

‘That's not much good, is it? We don't have any paint.'

‘Well, if we did . . .'

‘But we don't,' she stated.

‘I don't know, Maggie. Rhys wouldn't like it if we –'

‘I don't bloody care if Rhys likes it or not. He's not the only one in this organisation, you know.'

‘But he
did
start it. And it's his money –'

‘The hell it is! It's Fiona's money! Just because she's so bloody besotted with him, and lets him spend her money however he likes –'

‘Cool it, Maggie. I know that
you're
a liberated woman, and would never let a man tell
you
what to do, but –'

‘That's it!' she interrupted him excitedly. ‘That's it, Gary! Liberation!'

‘What? What are you talking about?'

‘Liberation!' She pounded on the seat. ‘Gary, you and I are going to liberate the chickens of Fielding Farm! Right now! Come on!' Maggie jumped out of the car and ran towards the meanly proportioned buildings where Fielding's chickens lived in cramped misery before giving up their lives and their thighs. ‘Liberation!' she called out softly into the spring night, as Gary followed her with trepidation and a kind of excitement. And just beyond, in the spring night, the foxes waited patiently.

CHAPTER 18

    
I am feeble, and sore smitten: I have roared for the very disquietness of my heart.

Psalm 38.8

The timing of Lucy's train had been planned so that David could collect her at the station after he finished work, but as it happened, he went home to Wymondham at midday. He hadn't accomplished a great deal that morning – all week, for that matter – and was worrying about the things that needed to be done at home. At last he could stand it no longer; he told Nan, who was filling in as she usually did during the receptionist's lunch hour, that he wasn't feeling well, and escaped before she could ask any questions.

There were the
pots de crème
to be made, for one thing. And the last-minute cleaning and dusting. He prepared all the ingredients for that night's mushroom stroganoff, put the champagne in the fridge, ironed his mother's best damask tablecloth and laid the dining-room table. He polished the heavy silver candlesticks, then drove quickly into town to buy new candles and an armload of fresh flowers. Some of them he arranged for the dining-room table, but there were enough left for a few discreet bouquets around the house. The last, choicest blooms he reserved for a small nosegay which he put in the guest room, on the table beside the bed.

David walked around the house, trying to forget that he'd lived there almost all his life, trying to see it as a stranger – as Lucy – might see it. An ordinary, 1930s semi-detached house, a bit on the small side. His parents had bought it when they'd married, late in life for both of them it had been, after the war. From that house his father had travelled into Wymondham every day for over thirty years, to his job at the bank, first on foot, then by bicycle, and latterly in a car. In that house his mother had sat, day after day, year after year, managing and manipulating the lives and psyches of her husband and her only child. To that house David had been brought at birth, had lived in it as a child, as an adolescent; to it he had returned a grown man, after his father's sudden death. It was so difficult to see it with fresh eyes; he was so used to every inch of it, every crack in the wallpaper, every creak of the floorboards. An ordinary house. Two reception rooms on the ground floor, the estate agents would say: the dining room, though small, was just about acceptable; there was some good furniture, and David had had some say in its decoration. He'd always hated the sitting room, where his mother had spent much of her time and which had reflected her rather pedestrian tastes, and last autumn he'd completely redecorated it. It was not a large room, but it was now comfortable and tasteful. There was the kitchen, fitted not very recently and laid out inefficiently, and a minute loo. A narrow entrance hall, carpeted, and a straight stairway. Three bedrooms upstairs: Mother's room, the largest, at the back of the house, still untouched nearly ten months after her death. David's room, in the middle. And the small guest room at the front, fragrant now with the flowers. A poky bathroom with ugly turquoise fixtures. A steep staircase, leading to the attic room under the eaves, the room that had once been his only escape from Mother . . . How would it all look to Lucy? Her house was so much of a unity, and so perfectly mirrored her serene personality.

He remembered that he'd not yet put fresh towels in the bathroom, and while he was there he decided to give the washbasin a last polish. Then he returned to the dining room for a final check. Yes, it looked fine. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed and David looked at it, aghast. Six o'clock already! Damn! He was going to be late for her train.

It was only nine miles from Wymondham into Norwich, nine miles of uninteresting, scrubby terrain via the straight, flat A11 dual carriageway. But David didn't spare a thought, as he might have done, for how this landscape might look to Lucy. He was far too involved in his frantic calculations as to how fast he might travel and how soon he might arrive at Norwich station. The station was on the east side of the city, on the outskirts, but extremely inconvenient for access from Wymondham, particularly with Norwich's complex one-way system. And as soon as he reached the ring road, David found himself in the middle of rush-hour traffic. There was nothing to do but sit and fume, and look for his chances to weave through the traffic, all the while keeping his eye on the clock.

He was just about at the river by 6.35, the time her train was due to arrive. With any luck, he thought, the train would be late – they so often were. When he finally reached the station he was nearly ten minutes late by the clock in the car. What an inauspicious beginning for the weekend, he thought, furious with himself.

She was waiting for him in the station. There was an instant of shocked recognition: yes,
that's
what she looks like, he thought with satisfaction. Lucy.

She saw him at the same time, and came to him, smiling. ‘Hello, David.'

He wanted to kiss her, but took her case instead. ‘I'm so sorry I'm late, Lucy. The traffic . . .'

‘That's all right. I thought that you might get held up in traffic, this time of day. I was quite happy waiting. I knew you'd get here eventually.'

‘But I wanted to be here when you got off the train.' His voice was heavy with disappointment. ‘Wouldn't you know it! Any other time, British Rail would be running half an hour late! Just my luck they're on time for once.'

She laughed at his self-deprecating scowl. ‘Never mind, David.'

He steered her out of the door and towards the car. ‘Did you have a good journey?'

‘Oh, fine. It was a very fast train – it left London at five, and only made one stop, at Ipswich.'

‘Did you manage to get some tea in the restaurant car?'

‘There wasn't a restaurant, only a buffet car – and their tea is pretty vile. Those bags with the milk already in them, you know.'

‘Ugh.' His mother had instilled in him a strong prejudice against tea bags in any form. ‘Well, if it's not too late for you, you can have some tea when we get – home.' He stowed her case in the boot and turned to face her, smiling at last. ‘I'm so glad you've come,' he said simply.

The mushroom stroganoff had been delicious, and Lucy had complimented him on the
pots de crème
. Now they sat lingering over their coffee.

David regarded her across the table. He couldn't believe how
right
it seemed for her to be here with him. He needn't have worried that she'd be critical about the house, or out of place here; she seemed entirely at home, relaxed and happy. As she talked about the last-minute plans for the exhibition's opening, and all the frantic phone calls she'd received from Fiona at the gallery, he reached across the table and took her hand. After a while she laced her fingers with his and they sat like that for a very long time, saying little but smiling at each other contentedly. David knew that he was behaving like a lovesick adolescent, but for this one evening at least he was perfectly happy, and not in the least self-conscious.

At last Lucy sighed with regret, disengaged her hand gently, pushed her hair back from her face, and rose from the table. ‘I think we'd better tackle the washing-up, David. It's getting late, and tomorrow is going to be a big day.'

After the washing-up, accomplished with much shared laughter, he showed her up to the guest room. She automatically proffered her cheek for his kiss, but he surprised her; with a finger under her chin he turned her face towards him, and for a moment his lips lingered on hers, softly and shyly. Then he moved away quickly to the door, where he turned. ‘Lucy . . .'

She looked at him searchingly. ‘Yes?'

‘I . . . I'm glad you've come.'

‘David . . .'

‘Yes?'

She paused. ‘Good night.'

‘Damn,' he said to himself under his breath. ‘Damn, damn, damn.' Why was he such a coward? Why hadn't he . . . ? Damn.

He could hear her in the room next door, moving around quietly for a few minutes, making her preparations for bed. And then . . . nothing.

The sheets were cold as he slid between them, but his body burned with longing. She was under the same roof, in the next room even, with only one thin wall between them. He couldn't bear it – to have her so near that if he strained his ears he could almost believe that he could hear her measured breathing. Oh, Lucy . . .

Perhaps she would come to him, as she had in his dream.

He lay awake for hours, his body tense and his mind in turmoil.

But she didn't come.

Of course she didn't.

On the other side of the wall Lucy lay, very still but very much awake. She had a great deal to think about: David had changed towards her – she wasn't sure why, or how. Perhaps it was just having her on his own turf that had caused him to see her in a different light, she speculated. Whatever the cause, she welcomed it. Tonight it had almost seemed that they were on the brink of something, of a major shift in their relationship. And his kiss, so different from the ones he'd given her before, had confirmed it. But why hadn't she had the courage to take it further? Why hadn't he? She wished desperately that she were on the other side of that wall tonight, sleeping content in his arms, replete with loving. She would only be here two nights, and one of them had been wasted already.

What awakened him, finally, was the smell of freshly brewed coffee. David opened one eye and looked at the clock. It was almost eleven o'clock. He groaned in disbelief; they were due at the gallery by twelve. Once he'd fallen asleep, near dawn, his exhausted body must finally have sought refuge in the deep sleep it had craved for nearly a week. David reached for his dressing gown.

Lucy looked pointedly at the clock as he came into the kitchen. ‘I was beginning to think I'd have to send out a search party! Do you always sleep so late?' She was unable to keep a faint tinge of irritation from her voice.

‘No,' he answered shortly. ‘I'm sorry.'

‘Well, have some coffee – that will get you going – and some hot croissants.'

‘Oh, where did the croissants come from?'

‘I was up early, and walked into town. I got them at the bakery.'

‘They smell lovely.' He sat down at the kitchen table and took the mug of coffee from her. ‘Thanks, Lucy. Did you sleep well?'

She hesitated, then smiled. ‘To tell you the truth, the traffic kept me awake for quite a while last night, and woke me early this morning.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry. That room is probably the worst one in the house for traffic noise. We're not that far from the main road, and being in the front of the house . . .'

‘Never mind. I enjoyed my walk around Wymondham this morning. It's a lovely town, isn't it?'

‘I'd like to show it to you in detail, when there's time.'

She looked at the clock again, frowning slightly. ‘There certainly isn't time now, David. How long will it take us to get to the gallery?'

He noticed then that Lucy was dressed and ready to go. Suddenly he felt quite self-conscious, unshaven and in his dressing gown. He wouldn't blame her if she were annoyed with him, oversleeping like that on her big day. ‘Not long,' he assured her, gulping down the rest of his coffee. ‘I'll go and get ready right now.'