cards while clearing the kitchen table for supper.
Gavin had never intended to vote; if Barry had been alive to stand, he might have done so, but he had no desire to help Miles achieve another of his life’s goals. At half-past five he packed up his briefcase, irritable and depressed, because he had finally run out of excuses not to have dinner at Kay’s. It was particularly irksome, because there were hopeful signs that the insurance company was shifting in Mary’s favour, and he had very much wanted to go over and tell her so. This meant that he would have to store up the news until tomorrow; he did not want to waste it on the telephone.
When Kay opened the door to him, she launched at once into the rapid, quick-fire talk that usually meant she was in a bad mood.
‘Sorry, it’s been a dreadful day,’ she said, although he had not complained, and they had barely exchanged greetings. ‘I was late back, I meant to be further on with dinner, come through.’
From upstairs came the insistent crash of drums and a loud bass line. Gavin was surprised that the neighbours were not complaining. Kay saw him glance up at the ceiling and said, ‘Oh, Gaia’s furious because some boy she liked back in Hackney has started going out with another girl.’
She seized the glass of wine she was already drinking and took a big gulp. Her conscience had hurt her when she called Marco de Luca ‘some boy’. He had virtually moved into their house in the weeks before they had left London. Kay had found him charming, considerate and helpful. She would have liked a son like Marco.
‘She’ll live,’ said Kay, pushing the memories away, and she returned to the potatoes she was boiling. ‘She’s sixteen. You bounce at that age. Help yourself to wine.’
Gavin sat down at the table, wishing that Kay would make Gaia turn the music down. She had virtually to shout at him over the vibration of the bass, the rattling saucepan lids and the noisy extractor fan. He yearned again for the melancholy calm of Mary’s big kitchen, for Mary’s gratitude, her need for him.
‘What?’ he said loudly, because he could tell that Kay had just asked him something.
‘I said, did you vote?’
‘Vote?’
‘In the council election!’ she said.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Couldn’t care less.’
He was not sure whether she had heard. She was talking again, and only when she turned to the table with knives and forks could he hear her clearly.
‘…absolutely disgusting, actually, that the parish is colluding with Aubrey Fawley. I expect Bellchapel will be finished if Miles gets in…’
She drained the potatoes and the splatter and crash drowned her temporarily again.
‘…if that silly woman hadn’t lost her temper, we might be in with a better shot. I gave her masses of stuff on the clinic and I don’t think she used any of it. She just screamed at Howard Mollison that he was too fat. Talk about unprofessional…’
Gavin had heard rumours about Dr Jawanda’s public outburst. He had found it mildly amusing.
‘…all this uncertainty’s very damaging to the people who work at that clinic, not to mention the clients.’
But Gavin could muster neither pity nor indignation; all he felt was dismay at the firm grip Kay seemed to have on the intricacies and personalities involved in this esoteric local issue. It was yet another indication of how she was driving roots deeper and deeper into Pagford. It would take a lot to dislodge her now.
He turned his head and gazed out of the window onto the overgrown garden beyond. He had offered to help Fergus with Mary’s garden this weekend. With luck, he thought, Mary would invite him to stay for dinner again, and if she did, he would skip Howard Mollison’s sixty-fifth birthday party, to which Miles seemed to think he was looking forward with excitement.
‘…wanted to keep the Weedons, but no, Gillian says we can’t cherry-pick. Would you call that cherry-picking?’
‘Sorry, what?’ asked Gavin.
‘Mattie’s back,’ she said, and he had to struggle to recollect that this was a colleague of hers, whose cases she had been covering. ‘I wanted to keep working with the Weedons, because sometimes you do get a particular feeling for a family, but Gillian won’t let me. It’s crazy.’
‘You must be the only person in the world who ever wanted to keep the Weedons,’ said Gavin. ‘From what I’ve heard, anyway.’
It took nearly all Kay’s willpower not to snap at him. She pulled the