is it? Some of yor vegetables, p’haps? Tinned goods is what we’d truly like.”
“Oh.” Peterson tried to judge the man, who was giving him a fixed smile, one that had other interpretations than simple friendliness. “I suppose we can do a bit of that, yes. We don’t have many tinned goods, however.”
“We’d like ’em, though, sir.”
Was there an edge to his voice? “I’ll see what we can do.”
“That’d be fine, sir.” The man sketched a brief gesture of touching a forelock, as though he were a retainer and Peterson the squire. Peterson stood still as the man swung onto his bicycle and pedaled off. There had been enough of parody in the gesture to give the entire conversation a different cast. He watched the man leave the property without looking back. Frowning, he turned towards the house.
He went round behind the hedge, avoiding the garden, and crossed the farmyard. From the hen-house came low contented cluckings. By the door he scraped his boots on the old iron scraper and then tossed them down in the passageway just inside the door. He slipped on some house shoes and hung up his jacket.
The large kitchen was warm and bright. He had put in modern appliances but left the flagged stone floor, worn smooth by centuries of use, and the huge fireplace and the old oak settle. His uncle and aunt sat on either side of the fire in comfortable high-backed wing chairs, as silent and motionless as iron firedogs. In its place at the head of the table, the big round teapot sat under its quilted cosy. Roland, the farmhouse factotum, silently set the plate of scones, pats of sweet butter, and a dish of homemade strawberry jam on the table.
He crossed to the fire to warm his hands. His aunt, seeing him, gave a start.
“Well, bless my soul, it’s Ian!”
She leaned forward and tapped her husband on the knee.
“Henry! Look who’s here. It’s Ian, come to see us. Isn’t that nice?”
“He’s come to live with us, Dot,” his uncle answered patiently.
“Oh?” she said, puzzling. “Oh. Where’s that pretty gel of yours then, Ian? Where’s Angela?”
“Sarah,” he corrected automatically. “She stayed in London.”
“Hmm. Pretty gel but flighty. Well, let’s have tea.” She threw back the rug from her legs.
Roland came forward and lifted her to her seat by the teapot. They all sat round the table. Roland was a big man, slow-moving. He had been with the family two decades.
“Look, Roland, here’s Ian, come to visit.” Peterson sighed. His aunt had been senile for years; only her husband and Roland had any continuity in her mind.
“Ian’s come to live with us,” his uncle repeated.
“Where are the children?” she asked. “They’re late.”
No one reminded her that both sons had drowned in a sailing accident some fifteen years before. They waited patiently for the daily ritual to be completed.
“Well, let’s not wait for them.” She picked up the heavy teapot and began to pour the strong steaming tea into the striped blue and white farmhouse cups.
They ate in silence. Outside, the rain that had threatened all day began to fall, tentatively at first, pattering against the windows, then more steadily. Distantly, the cows, disturbed by the drumming of the rain on the roof of their shed, lowed mournfully.
“It’s raining,” his uncle volunteered.
No one answered. He liked their silence. And when they spoke, their flat East Anglian vowels slid like balm into his ears, slow and soothing. His childhood nurse had been a Suffolk woman.
He finished his tea and went into the library. He fingered the cut glass decanter, decided against a drink. The steady sound of pouring rain was muted by the heavy oak shutters. They had been well made, concealing a panel of steel. He had turned the place into a fortress. It could withstand a lengthy siege. The cowsheds and barn were double-walled and connected by tunnels to the house. All doors were double, with heavy bolts. Every room was a miniature armory. He stroked a rifle on the library wall. He checked the chamber; oiled and loaded, as he had ordered.
He chose a cigar and dropped into his leather armchair. He picked up a book that lay waiting, a Maugham. He began to read. Roland came in and built a fire. Its rich crackling cut the edge of cold in the room. There would be time later to review the stock of provisions and lay out a dietary plan. No outside water, at least for a while. No more trips into