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Challenged, she made a brave show of being interested in the pictures for their smell (mirrors smelled different from windows, she said, and paintings from either), their feel, or the difference they made to each room’s accoustic, but he could tell that she was only being kind.
    Nina Simone sang ‘Don’t Smoke in Bed’ and followed up with her peculiarly stately version of ‘He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands’. The scrambled eggs were ready too soon. Faber switched off the gas then buttered toast for Iras and spread margarine on Ryvita for himself.
    â€˜Iras!’ he yelled at the ceiling. ‘Lunch!’ Then he reached for the telephone and dialled. ‘Yes,’ he said, when someone answered, ‘I’d like Briar Ward please.’
    â€˜Putting you through,’ said the receptionist.
    â€˜Hello, Briar Ward,’ said a nurse.
    â€˜Hello. I’m ringing to ask after a friend there. Marcus Carling.’
    â€˜Oh,’ she said. ‘It’s you.’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜You really ought to come in, you know, if you’re a friend of his.’
    â€˜How is he?’
    â€˜Worse. Much worse. Visiting hours are nine to twelve-thirty then two-thirty until eight. Who shall I say called?’
    Iras was coming downstairs, singing. Faber hung up and busied himself spooning the now rather flaky scrambled eggs onto two plates.
    â€˜Ride far?’ he asked, setting the plate before her.
    â€˜Yeah,’ she said, reaching for where the pepper always was. She sang on. ‘He’s got the little bits of baby in his hands. He’s got the little …’
    â€˜Itsy-bitsy.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜It’s “itsy-bitsy baby,”’ he pointed out, sitting beside her and breaking his Ryvita. ‘Not little bits of baby.’
    â€˜You’re wrong,’ she said, shaking her head and reaching for where the salt always was. ‘Maybe in your version it’s itsy-bitsy but the way Nina sings it, it comes out as “little bits”. I prefer it that way anyway.’
    â€˜Why’s that?’
    â€˜Well,’ she set down her knife and fork and put her head on one side the way she always did when she explained a rudimentary truth to an idiotic world. ‘If you listen carefully instead of singing along, you’ll hear that she never says who “he” is.’
    â€˜Well, everyone knows it’s about God.’
    â€˜I don’t,’ she said. ‘I think it’s about Death. It makes much more sense that way. Serene but menacing. And “little bits of baby” sounds harder and more frail. Itsy-bitsy’s too cute.’
    Faber told her to eat her scrambled egg before it got cold and they ate on in silence.

Eight
    Robin had told her he would come home soon but he doubted that she expected him back this quickly. When he finished talking to her on the Abbot’s ancient telephone, he had imagined he would need a few days to grow accustomed to the idea of leaving. Two or three.
    It needn’t be for long, he told himself, I can come straight back if I’m not ready.
    He told the Abbot, who went on to say the same things.
    â€˜You needn’t feel you have to stay away,’ he said. ‘You have nothing to prove by suffering. If you don’t feel you can cope, if you’re not ready for it, come straight back. Never mind the christening. I’m sure your friends would understand.’
    But then the Abbot went straight into organising a farewell supper for him, with a mead allowance and a honey-crusted ham and Robin saw that there was no need to hang around. He was ready. He would go tomorrow. He went back to the orchard to tell Luke and finish picking apples. After the first few questions, the news made Luke broody and they worked in silence. Robin knew he was there from sickness, not piety, but Luke’s reaction and then the slightly hectic jollity of the farewell