it had been thrown here and there. Underneath, there was a small stream that originated somewhere behind the house and headed for the sea. He hadn’t known about it and wondered why the first gardeners had thought to cover it up. It seemed a pity. Picnics on the lawn had been a specialty of his mother’s. He remembered lying on the blanket as she put out the tea things. The children drank very milky tea (the milk quotient decreased as one got older, until, at fifteen or sixteen, it was the same color as the adults’). Their mother always insisted that they wait an hour before they went swimming—she was petrified they would get a cramp. When she gave the all clear, he and Phil ran down to the beach and raced each other to the island and back, while their mother watched from the shore, towels at the ready. John couldn’t fathom why his children liked the pool better; as far as he was concerned, nothing could beat sea-bathing.
Marianne would be in her new garden, hiding from the mess down here. As he climbed up through the forest to the flat piece of land on the other side, he felt an anticipation at seeing her, after his final meeting with Foyle. He wondered whether he should explain why he’d lied to her the day before. If he put it in the right terms, she’d understand. But surely she should understand without him having to say anything, he thought.
It was late afternoon. She was on her knees at the edge of a flower bed, heaping soil around a new planting. He stopped on the ridge, watching. She wasn’t wearing her gardening clothes but a skirt, which she had pulled up over her knees so as to keep it clean. He wondered what she could have been doing that day to require a skirt. She would be cold. He had meant to go straight to her, to comfort her about the lawn, but when she gave the soil a final pat and stood up, she turned her back to him and looked out to sea. She was cold, he could see that now, in the stiff way that she moved. He thought how seldom it was that he had a chance to watch Marianne, how different his wife seemed when she thought she was alone. Without taking her eyes off the sea, she squatted on the ground. Then she began to rock back and forth. The act was unfamiliar to John, and disconcerting in its inelegance. He wondered what she could be doing. And then the obviousness of it hit him, his own stupidity! She was crying, of course.
He had wanted to tell her about his afternoon, and how Mrs. Baskin said she was going to come up to the house one of these days to “have a look at the place.” But he stepped back into the undergrowth. It was dark in the forest, the light outside too weak to penetrate. He slipped down the paths, his hands grabbing at tree trunks until he was at the bottom.
When she came back, it was getting dark and he had begun supper. He had not been particularly successful in the beginnings of this impromptu meal and was glad to see her. There was not a speck of mud on her skirt, nor was there any evidence of her distress. She smiled at Philip, who was helping with dinner.
“Did you see the stream, Mummy?” he said, as he led her to the kitchen table, where his and Kate’s drawings of the valley were laid out side by side. Kate arrived at the kitchen door, settling against the frame.
As Marianne hugged Philip, she watched John over the top of the child’s head. He could feel it as he opened and closed cupboards, which made him wonder if she had sensed him watching her hours earlier. No, he had been well hidden, and besides, he was expecting her disapproval; she would blame him for the lawn, for the stone path, he knew this. What would she say when she found out the full extent of his agreement with the government, that they had almost no power over what happened at Dulough now?
Philip
Philip slipped out of the cottage and made his way up the avenue towards the big house and, beyond it, to the beach. He carried a shovel that he’d taken from Francis’s work shed.
Marianne would be in her new garden, hiding from the mess down here. As he climbed up through the forest to the flat piece of land on the other side, he felt an anticipation at seeing her, after his final meeting with Foyle. He wondered whether he should explain why he’d lied to her the day before. If he put it in the right terms, she’d understand. But surely she should understand without him having to say anything, he thought.
It was late afternoon. She was on her knees at the edge of a flower bed, heaping soil around a new planting. He stopped on the ridge, watching. She wasn’t wearing her gardening clothes but a skirt, which she had pulled up over her knees so as to keep it clean. He wondered what she could have been doing that day to require a skirt. She would be cold. He had meant to go straight to her, to comfort her about the lawn, but when she gave the soil a final pat and stood up, she turned her back to him and looked out to sea. She was cold, he could see that now, in the stiff way that she moved. He thought how seldom it was that he had a chance to watch Marianne, how different his wife seemed when she thought she was alone. Without taking her eyes off the sea, she squatted on the ground. Then she began to rock back and forth. The act was unfamiliar to John, and disconcerting in its inelegance. He wondered what she could be doing. And then the obviousness of it hit him, his own stupidity! She was crying, of course.
He had wanted to tell her about his afternoon, and how Mrs. Baskin said she was going to come up to the house one of these days to “have a look at the place.” But he stepped back into the undergrowth. It was dark in the forest, the light outside too weak to penetrate. He slipped down the paths, his hands grabbing at tree trunks until he was at the bottom.
When she came back, it was getting dark and he had begun supper. He had not been particularly successful in the beginnings of this impromptu meal and was glad to see her. There was not a speck of mud on her skirt, nor was there any evidence of her distress. She smiled at Philip, who was helping with dinner.
“Did you see the stream, Mummy?” he said, as he led her to the kitchen table, where his and Kate’s drawings of the valley were laid out side by side. Kate arrived at the kitchen door, settling against the frame.
As Marianne hugged Philip, she watched John over the top of the child’s head. He could feel it as he opened and closed cupboards, which made him wonder if she had sensed him watching her hours earlier. No, he had been well hidden, and besides, he was expecting her disapproval; she would blame him for the lawn, for the stone path, he knew this. What would she say when she found out the full extent of his agreement with the government, that they had almost no power over what happened at Dulough now?
Philip
Philip slipped out of the cottage and made his way up the avenue towards the big house and, beyond it, to the beach. He carried a shovel that he’d taken from Francis’s work shed.
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