She digs a hole to bury her deep next to Puck. She does not want her found and dug up by badgers or foxes. The cat is still loose-limbed and floppy, and Lucy places her in the hole cradled by roots as if she is still sleeping in the sun, but she cannot bear to push earth over the little feline face.
She picks bluebells and mint and garlic flowers and lays them over Abi’s eyes and head, makes a cover between the cat and the rain-soaked earth. Then she takes the spade and buries her. As Abi disappears from view Lucy suddenly sees herself under the ground too, a cold and literal walking over her grave.
Barnaby appears from the house and takes the spade from her, makes good the small grave and chats about what flowering thing they can plant on top of Abi. Lucy tells him about the horrible sensation and wonders if it is an omen. Barnaby says, smiling in that comforting way he has, ‘Lucy, remember when you and I went to pick her up from the farm? You were only six and that little cat has been a part of your childhood. You have just buried a chunk of your life, that is all.’
Lucy knows he is probably right. Barnaby has been central to her childhood. He has given her security and unconditional love. He has never let her down, ever.
She turns, shading her eyes from the sun, and stares back at the house. In the conservatory her grandparents are moving around each other aimlessly. Fred is looking for his newspaper and Martha, despite the warmth of the day, is clothed in many woollen garments. It is like looking at a bizarre backdrop to some surreal play.
A lump rises in Lucy’s throat. She is deserting them. She is leaving Barnaby with this and she has not even had the courage to tell him yet. She feels torn and suddenly apprehensive of the future. For Barnaby, for Tristan and for herself. These are her grandparents and she should be here for them. Lucy turns away, bends once more to the small grave and pats the earth flat.
Barnaby is watching her. ‘What is it, Lucy?’
‘Tristan has just been posted to Kosovo.’
Barnaby sighs. ‘Oh, Lucy, I am sorry.’ He picks up the spade and pulls her to her feet, putting his arm round her as they walk back to the house. ‘Tristan will be all right, Lu, I am absolutely sure of it.’
Martha is waving vaguely at them. Lucy does not think her grandmother has a clue who they are, but she and Barnaby both wave back, smiling.
Gran. Lucy feels again a lightning snake of sadness. She wants to protect and keep everything in this house safe, as it has been all her life, and she knows it is impossible. She has no power over her grandparents’ old age, state of mind or eventual death.
Barnaby locks the church door and stands on the porch looking out to where the sea lies in a semicircle round the churchyard. The tide is in and the estuary lies black and full, silhouetted by small, bent oak trees.
Barnaby walks past the ancient gravestones towards the water. He is reluctant to make the small journey across the road back to the house. He stands looking towards the harbour, listening to the throb-throb of the boat engines in the evening air as the small, colourful fishing fleet makes its way carefully over the bar and back to the quay.
Barnaby longs to spend this spring evening with another adult, a woman, if he is truthful. The familiar feeling of wasted years shoots through him briefly and painfully. It is not just loneliness that accentuates his single state; it is the slow, tragically funny and innocent return to childhood of both his parents, as if they have mutually given up being adult together. There is no one but Lucy to share this with: to laugh with, so he does not cry.
Lucy has been wonderful, rarely impatient, always concerned and tender with her grandparents. But she is another generation and she cannot share his memories. She has Tristan, her own life to lead.
There is Anna, but his sister does not want to accept what is happening to her parents. She is, as always, heavily involved with her career, and a husband. Anna, normally so practical, is in denial.
Barnaby turns away and makes his way down the church path and across the road to the house. Martha is peering out of the hall window, watching for him, or someone she recognises, within the fussy haze in which she now lives.
He opens the door and calls out, ‘I’m home.’
His mother dances towards him on tiny feet. ‘How do you do? I’m Martha Tremain,’ she says graciously.
Barnaby takes her small hand. ‘And I am Barnaby Tremain, your son.’ He smiles down at her, watching the bewildered expressions of doubt pass over her still-beautiful face.
Martha sees the laughter in his eyes and she laughs too, a little burst of relief. Of course. It’s Barnaby.
‘Oh, darling,’ she says. ‘How silly! I’m going quite dotty, you know.’
‘Rubbish,’ Barnaby says, kissing her. ‘Where’s Fred?’
‘Fred?’ Martha shrugs eloquently. She does not know, her face is blank again, but Barnaby can see his father and Mrs Biddulph out on the lawn. His father has Eric, the ginger tomcat, on a lead and is trying to get the cat to sit. Eric is not finding the lesson in the least amusing and Homer, his little Lab cross, is sitting on the grass, looking puzzled.
Poor Mrs Biddulph looks cold and ready for home. Barnaby opens the French windows and calls out to his father. The old man’s face lights up and he moves with surprising agility towards his son. Mrs Biddulph unclips the lead from Eric, who stalks off into the undergrowth, his thin tail twitching with indignation.
Mrs Biddulph is not pleased. ‘I’ve been trying to get Dr Tremain inside for at least an hour. He hasn’t had his tea yet.’
Barnaby gives her his best smile. ‘Never mind. Whisky time, I think, Dad?’
‘Good idea, old chap. Sun’s over the yardarm.’
Barnaby laughs and takes his father’s arm. ‘It is indeed. Mrs Biddulph, thank you so much. Will we see you tomorrow?’
‘I can’t really say. Mrs Thomas has taken on new staff. Young girls won’t stay five minutes,’ Mrs Biddulph says scathingly. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t ring and tell you.’
Barnaby prays there is not going to be a stream of indifferent girls to confuse Martha even further. Mrs Thomas, who runs the Loving Care Agency Barnaby uses, is universally unpopular with her staff.
‘She pays crap, expects the earth and buggers everybody around,’ Barnaby was told by an efficient, purple-haired girl who lasted a week.
Once indoors Barnaby closes the French windows. Mrs Biddulph puts on her shapeless wool coat, a garment she wears winter and summer.
‘I might see you tomorrow or I might not, Vicar. Good night all.’ Mrs Biddulph departs at speed, already thinking about Mr Biddulph’s tea, the bus, and getting home in time for the Antiques Roadshow.
Barnaby gathers both parents up, herds them into the sitting room and pours whisky into their familiar heavy tumblers. They watch him like expectant children and take their glasses greedily.
‘Thank you, darling.’ His mother raises her glass to him and smiles her sweet vacant smile.
‘You having one, old chap?’ his father asks.
‘Indeed I am.’ Barnaby sits tiredly in the armchair and looks at his parents fondly. All so normal. All calm and Sunday eveningish. If he closes his eyes for a moment he can almost believe he is twenty again and spending another soporific weekend with his parents, comforted by routine but restless to be away.
‘What’s Hattie cooking for supper, I wonder.’ Martha’s voice wavers against his closed eyelids. He opens them. His father is staring at his mother.
‘Hattie isn’t here any more. She died, didn’t she?’
Martha’s eyes fill with tears. ‘Oh dear, shouldn’t we have gone to the funeral? Shouldn’t we have sent flowers?’