Secrets of the Heart

17

Gordon ‘The Gladiator’ Rice lived in deepest Croydon where, for a fee, he masterminded guerrilla activities -’nationwide’ – to foil road- and house-building. As soon as the filming had finished, Andrew got up at dawn and drove up to see him, explained that the planning inquiry was in June and he needed a bit of advice on tactics.

The Gladiator was not good in the early mornings, but he pulled himself together sufficiently and said he was happy to oblige. He was sorry about the charge, he explained cheerfully to Andrew, but social security wasn’t enough to fund his activities. If a top-up was on offer, he would nip down to Devon and teach the citizens of Exbury the art of civil unrest. After a lifetime of being a problem statistic, he could spot at once where the flanks were weak. His arsenal of ideas included sit-downs on major roads, living barriers stretched across the routes of heavy machinery, and digging tunnels through the foundations of the proposed houses.

‘You must hit them.’ He smacked a fist into his cupped hand, and Andrew was forced to take a step backwards: it was all too apparent that the Gladiator had philosophical objections to – or perhaps did not have time for- laundry arrangements. He smelt of earth that had turned rank, of gas mains, sulphur and sweat. But above the filthy anorak and jeans his countenance seemed to show content with his role in the world. It was an expression that Andrew knew he had yet to find in his own face, search as he might.

The Gladiator gave full value for money, and issued a stream of advice and instructions. ‘They scream if their budgets are affected, and if their name is branded in the press it’s a bull’s eye. You must make them scream. I love to make them scream. Are you on the Internet? No? Fix it up. That’s how we pass information. That way, we can duck and weave past them. Meanwhile,’ he shoved a heap of paper at Andrew, ‘read these, but don’t let the pigs in blue get their hands on them.’

The top sheet of roughly printed paper read: ‘DON’T MUCK WITH OUR FUTURE.’

‘One thing,’ added the Gladiator.

‘What?’

The truth dragged itself out of him. ‘They win. They always do. But we have to keep on. Never, never give up.’

Anger hissed in Andrew. These days, he was surprised at the intensity of his feelings, sometimes rather frightened by them. After years of nothing, of no real change in how he perceived and reacted to his surroundings, his decision to fight his landlord and forge the letters, then the departure of his wife had wrought in him a sea-change. Very quickly, he had become this person with powerful feelings and the urge to act. He hoped that he would recognize himself.

The Gladiator shrugged. ‘We outsiders,’ he said, ‘we know’

Andrew thought then of Agnes, and of her hair tangled across the pillow. The intimacy of seeing her asleep had been erotic and dangerously satisfying, its secrecy thrilling.

It was a glimmer of hope for the farm. Agnes understood the situation. With her film she had taken on the role of keeper of Tithings. Its messenger, perhaps even its saviour.

The fact that he was deceiving her was something he felt she would understand when the time came to be transparent.

On the way home he stopped, on impulse, phoned Agnes at Flagge House and asked if he could look in.

The van bounced up the drive and the soft beaten colour and shape of the house was framed in his windscreen. At the sight of it, Andrew suddenly felt happy and in communion with Agnes. His meeting with her had been more than a professional one: it had ensured new connections. Unsure where to park, he drove round to the kitchen yard at the back. As luck would have it, Agnes emerged with a bowl of wet lettuce from the back door, looking strained and preoccupied. ‘Good Lord, Andrew. I didn’t expect you quite so soon.’ But a smile lit her face and he felt better.

He unfolded himself from the driver’s seat. ‘I’ve come to report that the Gladiator and I are now in contact.’

Shreds of lettuce drifted towards the stone flags. ‘Good.’

The meeting did not seem as easy as his imagination had painted it, and he said awkwardly, ‘I’ve got a present for you.’

He opened the freezer section in the back of the van and presented her with a large, bloody bag. ‘This was Cromwell. Or, at least, his back end. I thought you would enjoy him.’

‘Hallo, Cromwell,’ said Agnes dubiously.

Andrew closed the van door. ‘He rode in the tumbril with Nero, his best mate. They were happy’

Agnes swallowed and checked over the dried lettuce. ‘We’ll put that in the freezer. You’d better stay to lunch. Come, I’ll introduce you to the aunts, who think you’re a very nice farmer indeed with lots of fluffy lambs and ducks.’

She shoved the meat and lettuce on to the kitchen table and led him down the gloomy Victorian wing and through the drawing-room window on to the terrace.

‘Maud, Bea,’ she said, ‘Andrew has arrived.’

Maud had decked herself out in a large straw hat à la Bloomsbury and, a little unsteady on her feet, was leaning against the stone balustrade for support. Bea was sitting on one of the rusty chairs, sewing. Rust flakes had landed on her light green cardigan and one or two had migrated to a very pale cheek. She smiled at Andrew. ‘We’ve been hearing about your farm.’

Maud commandeered the remaining chair. ‘You look a bit undernourished,’ she commented. ‘Doesn’t your wife feed you?’

Andrew was amused. ‘I’ve always been thin, Mrs Campion.’

Agnes bent over Bea and brushed the particles of rust from her cheek. ‘I think you’ll like him,’ she whispered. Bea snipped at a piece of thread and Agnes realized that she had been sewing a button on to Freddie’s blazer. She watched the small fingers pat and dart, smoothing the material with enormous consideration. ‘You’re always doing something,’ she commented, with a rush of affection.

Bea looked up in her unobtrusive way. ‘Keeping busy makes me feel useful. It’s the small things, I always think. They keep one in touch with what’s important.’ With the care of the trusted custodian, she laid Freddie’s blazer to one side. ‘You wait, Agnes, until you’re older.’

‘And what has persuaded you to leave your cows?’ Maud was asking.

Andrew fixed his eyes on Agnes. ‘I’m on my way back from a meeting with an eco-warrior.’

‘A what?’

Andrew explained who the Gladiator was. ‘He’s an expert in burrowing and protesting against road- and house-building.’

‘Burrowing? Is that really necessary?’

Andrew said gravely, ‘I want to save my farm. Any tactic will do.’

‘How refreshing.’ Maud breathed in sharply, the powdered planes of her face working. ‘There’s far too much niceness about. Non? It will be the death of us.’ She swivelled to face Andrew. ‘I plan not to be nice at all from now on. I’ve wasted my life being nice.’

‘So have I,’ said Andrew, at a stroke creating a skilful complicity between himself and Maud.

‘We like each other. You can fetch the drinks now, Agnes.’ Maud twitched at her skirt.

‘I like the sound of your farm.’ Bea spoke up. ‘Do tell us about it.’

Maud fidgeted while Agnes handed out sherry. Andrew had begun a brief description when she cut him off. Agnes, you have remembered that Freddie’s coming to lunch?’

Bea’s sewing slipped to the ground. ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ she said, as Andrew swooped to pick it up. ‘I must go and do things in the kitchen at once.’

In the kitchen, the remains of Cromwell had dripped a pool of blood on to the floor which settled into the loosened grout between the tiles.

After lunch, Freddie took Maud off for a drive and Bea, who declared she felt a trifle under the weather, went upstairs for a rest. Agnes and Andrew set out for a walk.

Thermals of warm air rose from the steps. ‘The house and grounds are about fifteen acres. It used to be bigger but various Campions have sold it off piecemeal.’

Andrew shaded his eyes and looked over to the houses hugging the perimeter wall. ‘Prime land, though. Who built that lot?’ He gestured at the cluster of villas whose roofs peered above the wall.

‘The farmer sold off-his field and the developers went ahead, despite the protests, built them and sold them to people who had never even heard of the village. Half of them don’t live here during the week.’

‘Like you?’

She grinned. ‘Hey, I do live here.’

They walked over the meadow to the river and she thought how much she liked his straightforward attitude. You knew where you were with someone like Andrew. He told you how it was. ‘I like the idea of you going into battle as an eco-warrior armed with cyber weapons and old-fashioned spades.’

‘You’ve probably filmed a lot of protest.’

‘Yes.’ She thought of the struggle she had had to get behind the lens and to get what she saw right. ‘But as an observer rather than a doer.’ She bent down, fingers tugging at the sappy grass. ‘It’s time to jump down off the fence. About the house, I mean.’ She crunched a stalk between her teeth and he observed how white they were against the pink-red of her lips. ‘But there isn’t much money’ She threw the grass away.

He said, with a rush, ‘The planning inquiry is coming up soon.’

‘I know.’ She paused. ‘Andrew, what will you do if it goes against you?’

He said stubbornly, ‘It won’t. Or, put it this way, I’m buckling on the armour. I won’t make it easy for them.’ He shoved his hands into his pockets with a force that threatened to drive them through the material. ‘And there’s the programme. I’m sure it will make a difference.’

It was not often that her work had such a direct bearing on a situation and she felt a small glow of selfish pleasure. Andrew wiped the sweat from his forehead and cleared his throat. Agnes, I don’t often get drunk. I wouldn’t like you to think that.’

She looked down at his tanned forearms. Andrew…’

‘I apologize for that night.’

‘We all do it,’ she said.

‘Penny isn’t coming back.’ He seemed anxious to let her know. ‘Given the circumstances, I don’t want her back.’ There. He was saying: the way is cleared for you and me.

The level of the river had dropped, quite normal in summer, and the long weed streamed through it, like a drowning woman’s hair. Andrew hunkered down and dabbled his finger in the chalk-filtered water. ‘Trout?’

‘Well, there are lots of fisherman’s tales in the village.’

Andrew stood up and wiped his hand on his trousers. ‘I imagine there’s a bit of a frost pocket.’ He indicated the hollow between two ancient oaks and the north wall. Then he bent down again and scraped away at the earth. ‘Loamy soil. All you need is drainage, and you’d have very good grazing.’

‘Goodbye, irises.’

‘You ought to keep bees. They’d do well here. Lots of nice rich clover. It’s the swarming season. You could lure in a colony.’

Agnes threw away her grass stalk. ‘Why do they swarm?’

‘The hive becomes too crowded and unless they sort it out the bees becomes diseased and aggressive. Anyway, it’s time to chuck out the old queen in favour of a younger one.’

‘Poor queen.’ Agnes took the path alongside the river and beckoned to Andrew. Her words floated back to him. ‘Imagine, flying up into the sky, old in knowledge and bee sex, knowing that her airborne mating will result in another queen, who will usurp her.’

They walked as far as the boundary wall and leaned up against it. This was a good point from which to view the village.

‘It’s all very civilized and obedient,’ he pronounced at last. ‘Not like the moody moor.’

Agnes rallied in defence. ‘Are you saying the supermarket and the motorway have won? No ancient gods?’ She scraped at a curl of lichen on the wall, and its sage-green dust sprouted under her fingernail. ‘They are still here. They just had to find new hiding places, that’s all.’

His hand trapped hers against the stone. ‘I can only see what’s in my own backyard.’

Hand pinioned, she asked, ‘How do you like my house?’

He kept his gaze fixed on Agnes. ‘It’s very fine.’

Agnes removed her hand, and Andrew was aware that he had disappointed her.

They walked back to the terrace. Thick clumps of Jamaican daisies bloomed in the cracks of the steps and the sun had picked out white and orange moss circles fanning across the stone. In the trees, wood pigeons cooed.

‘You need to do some repairs.’ Andrew tested the bottom step with a foot. ‘This is pretty ropy’

‘You remind me of Mr Harvey’

Andrew made the same criticism of the walls in the kitchen garden, and offered advice on double digging, compost and where to site the bees. A slight frown appeared on Agnes’s face, so he did not mention that he suspected that all the sash windows would need replacing and the kitchen wing looked as though it was subsiding.

‘Had you considered getting the kitchen sorted out first?’ he suggested finally, noticing the frown deepen. ‘You would feel better.’

They were loitering in the walled garden, enjoying the warmth. Agnes picked up shards of glass and stones and placed them in containers she had left there for the purpose. She straightened up. ‘I dream of a warm, functioning kitchen with a honey-coloured flagstone floor.’ She laughed. ‘I don’t know why, I’m a rotten cook.’

As he drove up the drive and parked by the front door, Flagge House levelled challenging and hostile eyes at Julian. Since that night, three weeks ago – three years – he had gone over and over the situation and he could not work out if it was Agnes’s rejection that so piqued him, or that he had lost control over the situation. He could see the problem, he could hear the explanation – a spoilt man wanting his way-but they did not add up. The mental picture of his life running on oiled wheels, work, mistress, odd love affair, was still clear in his mind but the edges had blurred, and he was conscious of serious shortfalls of feeling and tenderness, and of the wish to help himself to them.

Of Kitty he could not quite bring himself to think.

He hauled on the brake. At the same time, Agnes and Andrew emerged from the kitchen garden. They moved slowly, absorbed and at ease, deep in conversation.

Agnes looked up and gave a visible start. She sent him an angry, disappointed look which asked, Why?

At a disadvantage, and not a little sickened by himself, Julian waited for Agnes to approach him.

‘I’m en route to a project in Dorchester and I thought I’d drop this off.’ He produced a video from the back of the car. Angela tracked it down so I can’t claim any credit, but it’s about the SOE. I thought it might interest you.’

Agnes flushed. ‘How nice of you.’ Her voice rang strangely in her own ears. ‘Can I introduce Andrew Kelsey, the farmer who discovered the letters?’ She turned to Andrew. ‘Julian had the theory that Mary was an SOE agent.’

It took only seconds for Julian to assess and conclude that this man was also interested in Agnes. ‘Agnes mentioned that your case has gone to planning appeal,’ he said. ‘I run a firm that develops properties.’ He paused. ‘From your point of view, that might be a good thing.’ The video dangled from his hand.

A spat broke out between the wood pigeons. The sun slanted a beam of light into the driveway and shadow enshrouded the house. There was a moment of silence, a beat of impatience and rejection.

‘Why would that be?’ Andrew was polite, but only just.

‘I don’t think that district councils are always the best judges. They’re too close to the problem and too easily persuaded. Some developers prefer to do things properly and work with the planning people.’

‘Yes.’ Andrew’s eyes turned a cobalt colour with fury. ‘I expect it’s extremely satisfying concreting over an area the size of Bristol each year, particularly if you do it properly’

Julian began to enjoy himself. This was straightforward. His wars (and this was war) tended to be fought politely but savagely enough with guile, statistics, words and paper plans. He knew the territory.

Agnes intervened: ‘We’ve got most of the film under our belt, but we’re giving a chunk of time to the appeal.’

‘It will make good viewing,’ said Andrew. ‘Live executions do.’

‘Have you been offered relocation?’

Andrew swung round. ‘Can you relocate a life’s work?’

‘I think you can,’ answered Julian quietly, for Andrew’s anger had succeeded in touching him. It was on the tip of his tongue to present the usual arguments: fair compensation, government backing for new homes, the balance between the individual and the mass, working with the future, the vision that helps the ordinary person -people.

These were his beliefs, and that was the typically energetic language in which they were couched. But in the context of the distress registering on Andrew’s face, he abandoned the emollients and kept silent.

Agnes stretched out a hand for the video. ‘I’ll watch it tonight.’

Julian released it. ‘If Mary was an agent, she was a brave woman. You’ll see what I mean.’

At this point, the conversation ran out, for the two men were not making any effort. ‘Shall we have some tea?’ Agnes heard herself saying, and watched herself make bossy, shooing motions with her hands. ‘You two go through.’

She was waiting for the kettle to boil when Maud and Freddie returned from their drive, and she added more cups to the tray. She watched them walk across the sunlit yard, Maud’s steps uneven, uncertain. Agnes turned back into the gloomy kitchen. Time had rushed on, and she had not marked it. Next birthday she would be thirty-one. One day her footsteps would be as hesitant and fumbling.

She hefted the laden tray through the drawing room to the terrace, where the two men had been joined by Freddie. All three were being polite. The latter had thrown himself gallantly into the fray and was regaling the other two with ‘the business deals of my prime’, a topic that united both men in a glassy expression.

Agnes smiled. Freddie was so sweet and understood far more than he ever let on. She was handing a cup of tea to him when a scream issued from the first floor, followed by another.

Agnes started and the tea slopped. ‘My God, the aunts!’ Followed by the men, she fled through the drawing room and up the stairs.

At the top they found a groaning Maud collapsed in an unnatural heap outside her bedroom.

‘Don’t touch me,’ she managed, as Agnes knelt down beside her.

‘Where does it hurt?’

‘My hip.’ Maud closed her eyes. ‘I think it’s broken. It’s bound to be broken.’

Julian touched Agnes on the shoulder. ‘Where’s the phone?’ In shock, she stared at his blue shirt with its pearl buttons. ‘The phone?’ he repeated, and gave her a little shake. She told him and he disappeared.

Agnes chafed Maud’s hand. ‘Do you hurt anywhere else? Did you hit your head?’

‘I tripped on the floorboard…’ Maud ground out, between grimaces. ‘The one you said you’d get mended but never did.’

It was true. Maud had been going on about one of the oak planks, which had worked free of its mooring, adding double danger to an already uneven floor. ‘Oh, Maud,’ she stammered guiltily. ‘How dreadful.’ Panicked, she peered closer. Maud’s breathing was both rapid and shallow, and shock had stretched her skin tightly across her jaw.

Julian took the stairs two at a time. ‘The ambulance is on its way. They won’t be long.’ He knelt down beside Maud, and his expression gentled. ‘Would you like me to find your sister, Mrs Campion?’

Tears spilling from her eyes, Maud whispered, ‘Yes.’

Agnes said she was the best person to find Bea and Freddie offered as well, which left Julian and Andrew to deal with Maud.

‘How can I help?’ asked Andrew, pushing back the open cuffs of his sleeves.

Julian gestured towards the open bedroom door. ‘She would be easier with a pillow.’

Andrew disappeared and emerged with a pillow and a rug, and the two endeavoured to make Maud more comfortable. ‘Agnes’s fault…’ whispered Maud. ‘She promised. She’s…’

‘Now,’ said Julian, ‘I’m going to hold your hand while your sister is being found.’

Looking sweet and fresh in an embroidered blouse and her favourite cardigan, Bea was in the laundry room folding the washing. As she had been taking it down from the line, the commotion had bypassed her. When Agnes broke the news, she turned as white as a sheet. Just in time, Agnes swooped forward and caught her as her knees buckled.

‘I’m so sorry, so sorry,’ she murmured as, with difficulty, Agnes manhandled her to a chair. ‘It’s the shock.’ For a while, she sat clutching Agnes. ‘I don’t think my new pills quite suit me.’

Agnes dashed into the hall and called to Freddie for help. Moving with the speed of a much younger man, Freddie reached the laundry room within seconds, at which point the ambulance arrived and Agnes left him to it.

The paramedics took one look at Maud and transferred her to the gurney, during which time Bea, who had struggled upstairs on Freddie’s arm, fainted properly. It was suggested that she, too, went into hospital, which Agnes, alarmed by Bea’s reference to her pills, urged. Eventually, the gurney was carried down the stairs with its burden. Maud clung to Freddie’s hand. ‘I knew Flagge House would kill me. I kept saying.’

‘Well, it hasn’t, dear one, has it? Just a knock.’

‘Don’t leave me, Freddie. Don’t leave me.’

‘Now, now,’ said one of the paramedics, with practised patience, ‘we’re going to make you better, not eat you.’

The ambulance with Bea and Maud drove off. Andrew, Julian, Freddie and Agnes were left in the drive.

Agnes turned to them. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I must pack a few things for Maud and lock up.’

‘Of course.’ Freddie extracted his car keys. ‘If you need help, just ask…’ He tapped a finger to his nose. ‘Just ask, dear lady.’

Andrew shot a thunderous look at Julian. ‘If you’re sure, Agnes, I must get back to relieve Jim.’

‘Sure.’ She nodded. ‘Thank you for Cromwell.’

‘Any time.’ As he took her hand, she felt the uneven shape of his broken fingers, and the scar tissue on the cut one. Then he inserted his thin form into the van. He looked at Julian and said, in a voice which, technically, was intended for Agnes’s ears but reached Julian, ‘I’ll see you very soon.’