The Best of Times (69 page)

Throw away something that had become an intrinsic part of you, grown into you; entwined itself into your memories, tangled into your feelings, changed forever the way you were.

If only.

He got into his car and headed for the M
4
. The M
4
, where so much of his life had been changed forever. He would never hear the words again without a sense of absolute despair.

• • •

“Good day, dear?” Susan Andrews had been making marmalade; the house was warm and tangy and welcoming. Michael Andrews felt as he so often did after a day spent hearing sad stories of cutoff lives: that he was inordinately blessed.

“Yes. Yes, pretty good, I think.”

“Difficult?”

“No, not really difficult. It’s perfectly clear what happened. But … surprising in some ways. Extraordinary things, human beings. I’m always saying that, aren’t I?”

“Yes, dear, you are.”

“Brave and cowardly, foolish and wise, reckless and careful. All at one and the same time. Unbelievable, really.”

Susan Andrews looked at her husband. He was looking very drawn, in spite of his positive words.

“Come into the kitchen and have a cup of tea,” she said, “and tell me about it.”

• • •

Emma had been trying not to think about the inquest all day; but first Alex and then Mark had come in to tell her about it. About the various people they’d been involved with who were there, most notably Patrick Connell and, of course, Toby. “Funny chap, that,” Mark had said. “Some confusion over his evidence; he got very aerated. Oh, and your boyfriend was there, of course.”

“My … boyfriend? What do you mean?” she said.

“You know, the good-looking one, best man, you brought him up to the theatre that day when I operated on Weston’s leg.”

“Oh,” she’d said, “him. Yes, well, I supposed he would have been.”

“Nice chap,” said Mark, and then proceeded to tell her that not only was Toby’s wedding off, but so was Barney’s engagement. Adding that Barney had asked to be remembered to her. That had hurt her so much she could hardly bear it; she’d had to say she was in the middle of something and run to the loo, where she cried for a long time.

Barney had finished with Amanda, but he hadn’t got in touch with her. As rejections went, that was pretty final. How could it have happened? Where had it gone, that lovely, singing happiness they had found together, that instant closeness, that absolute certainty that they were right for each other? OK, their relationship hadn’t lasted long; it hadn’t needed to. It had been like a fireworks show: starting from nowhere and suddenly everywhere, explosive, amazing, impossible to ignore. And now … what? A poor, damp squib had landed, leaving nothing behind it, a bleak, sorry memento of the blazing display.

She knew now, absolutely certainly, that he didn’t want her. If he had, he would have called her; there was no reason on earth left not to. Probably, after all, it had just been a fling for him, fun, good indeed, but no more. The commitment had been fake, the love phony; he was probably even now pursuing some other well-bred, preppy creature more suited to his background, less of a discord in his life.

She would have been outraged had she not been so totally miserable; and maybe that would come. She hoped so. Meanwhile she felt like one of the girls she most despised: feebly clinging to what might have been, unable to break totally away.
He’s gone, Emma; get over it
.

But she hadn’t; and she couldn’t …

• • •

Abi drove into the farmyard just after six. The lights were on, and she could see Mrs. Grainger in the kitchen, bending over the kitchen table, making some no doubt wonderful dish or other. William often described what they’d had for lunch or supper; he was very keen on his food. She was clearly the most wonderful cook. Well, fine. William was never going to have to live with her cooking, her spag bol (usually
burnt), her lamb chops (always burnt), her pasta salad (not burnt, but pretty tasteless, really). After today, he wasn’t going to have to have anything to do with her; he’d probably pull out of the festival, even; they’d have to find a new venue; Georgia would go mental; they’d—

“Yes?”

“Oh. Hello, Mrs. Grainger.”

She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts of William, she’d hardly realised she’d got out of the car and banged on the farmhouse door.

“Miss Scott!”

“Yes. It’s me. Sorry.”

“That’s perfectly all right. But if you want to see William I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He’s out on the farm.”

“Oh, right. What, in the dark?”

“Well … he’s in one of the buildings. He went off with his father.”

“Yes, I see. What, the milking parlour? Or the grain store, somewhere like that?”

“I imagine so.”

“But you don’t know which?”

“No, I couldn’t possibly say.”

“How long might they be?”

“I have no idea. As even you must realise”—God, she was an offensive woman—“farming is not a nine-to-five occupation. I think the best thing you can do is go home, and I’ll tell William you called. Then he can contact you in his own good time.”

“Mrs. Grainger, I really want to see him.”

“Well, no doubt you will.”

She began to close the door; Abi put her foot in the doorway.

“Please tell me where he is. I really won’t keep him long.”

“Miss Scott, I don’t know where he is …”

At this point, the old farm truck swung into the yard; Mr. Grainger got out of it.

Abi knew it was Mr. Grainger, not because she had ever been
introduced to him, but because he looked exactly like William, or rather exactly as William might look in thirty-odd years. He looked at her rather uncertainly as she walked towards him.

“Hi. Mr. Grainger?”

“Good evening.”

“I’m looking for William. I’m a friend of his. Abi Scott. William might have mentioned me.”

“Ah, yes. The young lady involved in the concert. How’s it coming along?”

“Oh … pretty well. We’re so, so pleased to be able to have it here. Um … I wonder if you could tell me where William is?”

“Yes. Well, he was in the lambing shed. I left him there, working on the accounts. Would you like me to call him, to find out if he’s still there?”

“Um … no. No, it’s OK, thank you. I know where it is. I’ll just go and find him, if that’s all right.”

“Well … I suppose so, yes. You’ll drive down there, will you? Won’t do that smart car of yours much good.” He smiled at her. He seemed rather nice. What on earth was he doing with the old bat?

“Oh, it’s fine. Really. Yes. Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Grainger. And Mrs. Grainger, for your help,” she called towards the lighted doorway. Mrs. Grainger turned and went inside, followed by her husband.

“She seemed very nice,” he said. “Attractive girl, isn’t she? Not William’s usual type. Is there anything still going on, do you think?”

“I really couldn’t say,” said Mrs. Grainger. She had been making bread; she was kneading it now, almost viciously, Mr. Grainger thought.

• • •

Abi drove down the track to the lambing shed. Since the time spent in cottage number one, she’d got to know her way round the farm quite well.

It was very dark; she put her lights on full beam. Rabbits ran constantly
out onto the track, and she kept stopping, fearful of running over them. William would have found that hugely amusing, she thought; he’d told her how he and his brother had parked the Jeep in the fields at night, turned the lights full on, and then shot the unsuspecting rabbits that were caught petrified in the beam.

It’s so cruel—how could you; they’re so sweet,” she’d said, and he’d said, “Abi, rabbits are total pests; they consume vast quantities of cereal if they’re not kept under control. And they make wonderful stew.”

Other smaller animals ran across her path as well—God knew what they were—and there was a hedgehog, frozen with terror until she turned the lights off and waited patiently while it scuttled away. A large bird suddenly swooped past her windscreen. An owl, she supposed; the first time William had pointed one out, she’d been amazed by how big its wingspan was.

She’d learnt a lot in her time with him.

She reached the shed; the office was at the far end of it, so he wouldn’t have seen her, although he might have heard the car. And probably thought it was his father. She switched the lights off, got out; the quiet was stifling. An owl—maybe the same one—hooted; something scuffled in the hedgerow near her. She reached for her bag—how absurd was that, to take a handbag with her? William was always teasing her about it, but it held her phone and her car keys, easier than carrying them separately. She stepped forward; it was very muddy, and that was—
Oh, what! Gross …
She’d stepped in a cowpat. She could see it in the light from the shed. A great, round, liquid pile of shit; and her boot, one of her precious new boots from Office—how very inappropriate—sank deep into it. She stood there, staring down at it, and thought it was rather symbolic—of her, also sunk deep into shit.

She eased her foot out and stepped gingerly forward towards the shed, wary of finding another. The cows didn’t usually come this way—it wasn’t their territory; maybe they’d got out of whatever field they were meant to be in. They did that, William had told her; they leaned on the fences endlessly, unless they were electric, all together,
usually because they could see some better, more lush grass, with their great solid bulk, and every so often they managed to push them over and wander out. Only … actually, she’d thought they were usually kept inside this time of year, in the cowshed.

She made the door of the shed without further mishap, opened it, looked inside. It was still empty, no lambing going on yet, and very quiet. She closed the door after her and walked, as quietly as she could, down to the other end of the building, towards the outline of light round the door that had William behind it.

When she got there, she was suddenly rather frightened. Suppose he was abusive, started shouting at her. Suppose he actually hit her. She wouldn’t be able to blame him, if he did. Then she thought it would be totally out of his gentle character; and anyway, whatever happened, she couldn’t feel worse. Her sense of nobility from her actions in the court had left her; she just felt miserable and rather foolish.

She opened the door carefully; he was sitting at the desk with his back to her; didn’t even hear her at first. He was engrossed in a pile of forms; then he suddenly thrust them aside and sighed, very heavily, and pushed his hands through his hair.

“Hello,” she said. “Hello, William.”

He swung round; he looked extremely shocked. Not just surprised—shocked. Well, more like horrified, if she was truthful.

“Hello,” she said again.

“Hi.” His voice was dull, flat.

“I … came to find you.”

“As I see.”

“I … wanted to talk to you.”

“I really don’t think there’s anything to talk about.”

“There is, William.”

“Abi, there is not. I’m so tired of hearing your lies and your excuses and your phony concerns. Just go away, would you? I’m very busy.”

“No. Not till I’ve said what I’ve come to say.”

“I don’t see any point in your saying it. I won’t be able to believe it.”

“You could … try.” She looked down at her boot; it was a hideous sight, the greenish brown cow shit beginning to dry a little, cake round the edges.

“Um … do you have any newspaper or anything? Or maybe I could go into the toilet?”

“What for?”

“I stepped in some cow shit. Outside.”

“Oh, yes?”

He sounded absolutely disinterested. She felt a pang of panic.

“Yes. Actually, I was surprised; I thought you said you were keeping the cows in this time of year?”

“We’re keeping a few out this winter. As an experiment. To see if we can—” He stopped.

“If you can what?”

“Abi, you’re not really interested in cows. Or farming. Or me, come to that. Certainly not me. It’s all a bloody act. I can’t cope with it. Now go and clean up your fucking boot in the lavatory and then go. Please.”

Well, that was pretty final. Pretty clear. She really had blown it this time. She couldn’t imagine getting past this wall of indifference. And dislike. And mistrust. Better go. She’d tried, at least. Given it a go.

She walked through to the loo, pulled off her boot, sat wiping it with the toilet paper, rather feebly and helplessly. She didn’t seem to be able to see properly, and realised that her eyes were filled with tears. God, she was an idiot. Such a stupid, pathetic, hopeless idiot. He must hate her. Really hate her. Well, all she could hope for now was to escape with a bit of dignity. Dignity. Precious little she’d left for herself in the court that day. Saying to them all, “I fancied this man, this married man; I was running after him, actually, and he didn’t want me.” They must have all found it highly amusing.

She stood up again and walked back into the office. William was apparently absorbed in the forms again. He didn’t look round.

“Right,” she said, “well, bye, William, then. I’m … sorry.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said, and then suddenly, “Why did you do that today, for Christ’s sake? Why? In front of all those people, in front of me, rubbing my nose in it, telling everyone you … you’d wanted to go on with it, with that … that pile of shit, after what he’d done to you. Are you still in love with him or something? I don’t understand …”

“Oh, God,” she said, “no, of course I’m not in love with him; I loathe him; I’d like to see him strung up by his balls …”

“Well, then—”

“William, it’s so complicated. But I’ve always felt so bad—you know I have—about what I did that night. It’s not her fault, not Laura’s fault. You say I rubbed your nose in it; what did I do to her? And her kids? It was such a ghastly thing to do. And suddenly today, I thought … well, I didn’t exactly think. I just could see how I could put it a bit right. Let her know that her vile, slimy husband—how she can still be with him I don’t know—but anyway, he had wanted to finish it that day. To get rid of me. That it hadn’t still been going on. I just … just … felt I owed it to her. It wasn’t easy,” she added.