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  ‘Last week, when I was up at the allotment … It was a very blowy day, if you remember?’ He did not need a reply, but she nodded just the same. ‘One of my pink poppies had just come out – it was the first one – and it frightened me. Every gust of wind tore at it so that I expected it to lose all the petals.’ He glanced at her to see if she thought him ridiculous, but her hands were busy with a broad bean, which she had snapped. ‘It was so unbearably fragile.’

  Like the shapes we sometimes mistake for love, he thought. It had made him feel quite sick that day – the way one was repeatedly presented with a lesson in the symmetry of beauty and death. As if one needed to be reminded.

  A cool breeze meandered through the room and brought them back to the Mortford village hall. But this was no longer isolation. They were standing in a patch of light and it was clear that their minds had touched. Mrs Sarobi realised that she had been holding her breath. She felt she needed to say something pleasant and clever. Anything, as long as it seemed thoughtful; it was always easier, in a situation like this, to operate in the clarity of her intellect.

  ‘There’s so much in Western culture which repeats itself,’ she said. ‘Take Helen, for example – sister of the Dioscuri – although utterly unique, she too had a double: a phantom other.’

  ‘You know a lot about Western culture,’ he interrupted, admiringly, feeling suddenly very awake.

  ‘You have to, when you don’t belong.’ She smiled. Surely he must realise that trying to understand the culture – and the mind of one’s neighbour – is the first task of the exiled? ‘Anyway, my point about Helen is that she too was into poppies. She extracted opium from the pistils and mixed it with wine so that anyone who drank it would be prevented from crying and feeling grief for an entire day, even if their most beloved family and friends died in front of their eyes. This was all she had to offer: beauty and deception – and yet she shaped the course of history as we know it. As you know it.’

  ‘Real power is often based on something as insubstantial as beauty – or fear, for that matter.’ He knew this for a fact, as he had been under the spell of both. ‘This is what the poppy represents.’

  ‘Yes –’ she nodded sadly – ‘and there are, of course, the fields of Flanders …’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he agreed, ‘obviously.’

  There was an embarrassed silence between them, as if they had become too intimate, too quickly. Mrs Sarobi started fidgeting with the baskets, rearranging and tidying away a pea that had fallen out of its pod.

  ‘They are not buying your vegetables.’ He had only just noticed.

  ‘No, I know. Perhaps they are too expensive?’

  ‘Perhaps … although they are good vegetables.’ He wished he had more to offer.

  ‘Yes, and they sell for more in the deli … They probably think that I have poisoned the carrots – or that I’m going to blow myself up if they come too close.’

  He looked up at her nervously, but saw that her eyes were smiling.

  ‘I think they are afraid of standing next to you, where their looks would inevitably be compared against your beauty,’ he said, and reddened.

  ‘Ah, Gabriel, you’re a true gentleman,’ she said, laughing.

  But he only heard his Christian name. He could not remember when he’d last heard somebody say his first name, but now it made him feel warm around the chest. Her mouth was pink inside, he noticed, like a kitten’s – or a cat’s, at any rate.

  Just then, he heard a familiar voice cutting through the general babble and looked up to see Mrs Ludgate debating loudly with a woman who was cowering behind a small table of bric-a brac, embroidered cushions and crocheted babies’ booties. Doris Ludgate stood deliberately, squeezing an oversized beige patent-leather handbag in her armpit. ‘Are you trying to tell me that this is an original Royal Albert plate?’ She was waving a piece with a pattern of flowers at the owner of the stall, who muttered something inaudible in grumpy defence of her produce.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you that you won’t sell me some old dross, pretending it’s the real thing. Look – can’t you see that the flower of the month is misspelt? It says Decembel.’

  The bric-a-brac woman tried to protest, but Mrs Ludgate would not have it.

  ‘Ha! You have to give it to them, the Chinese – they are pretty excellent copyists, but, if they can’t get their child labourers to spell properly, they are not going to fool me. Do they not teach them to read and write in China, eh? What about all those school books and pens we used to send them? Have they not been using them, eh? Eh? Or perhaps that was Africa …’ Her cheeks were glowing; she could have been a painting by Caravaggio, had she not got herself so worked up. ‘Anyway, bloody waste of good charity, no? Somebody ought to tell the government. Decembel! Yeah, right.’

  Several people had turned to watch the scene. The woman at the stall seemed quite intimidated and tried her best to appease Mrs Ludgate, if only to make her lower her voice somewhat.

  ‘At this rate, there will soon be nothing English left in this country. Royal Albert, my posterior,’ Mrs Ludgate muttered loudly and clattered the offensive piece of crockery back on the table.

  She was wearing a boat-neck top and, from behind, Gabriel Askew saw that her neck was bulging over her vertebrae, like something cetacean. Oh dear, he thought, I do hope she does not come this way.

  But, of course, eventually, not even the Jubilee Hall was large enough to keep them apart. Mr Askew felt suddenly too hot and dabbed his brow with a large handkerchief, which might once have been clean. Mrs Sarobi noticed. ‘Why don’t you take your coat off?’ she suggested.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered, self-consciously, once again regretting the tie. He turned his back to the hall, as if he was preparing to undress for bed, bundled the coat on to a chair and patted his hair.

  When, at last, he turned back to the room, he was dismayed to find himself face to face with Mrs Ludgate. However, for once, she did not seem particularly interested in him. She was sucking her teeth, looking doubtfully at Mrs Sarobi, as if she too somehow belonged to the category of fake crockery. ‘I have always been told,’ she said, pronouncing every word slowly and with care, ‘that the people from Afghanistan – the real Afghanistanians, that is – wear those blue tents. Are you sure you’re not Indian?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Mrs Sarobi answered sincerely.

  Mrs Ludgate frowned. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I hear you’re a supplier – a fruit and veg supplier … like Mrs Thatcher used to be … But you’re not like her, are you?’ The idea had only just sailed up in her mind and it bothered her. Nor could she remember if Mrs Thatcher had actually been a supplier – or the daughter of a greengrocer. Same difference, anyway.

  ‘No, I would certainly not like to think so.’

  ‘Nah, I thought not.’ She exhaled, relieved. ‘Anyway, just so that you know, I am all for it.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Mrs Sarobi carefully, and cocked her head.

  ‘You being a supplier and all.’

  ‘Okay … Um … Well, thanks.’

  ‘You know, there are a lot of others – others like you – who don’t supply anything, if you see what I mean.’ Doris Ludgate winked in order to convey the kind of understanding she liked to believe existed between intelligent women – of all colours.

  ‘No. I’m afraid I don’t.’

  Mr Askew glanced anxiously at Mrs Sarobi, but saw that she was so composed, she could have been carved out of marble. He cleared his throat and took a step forward.

  ‘Oh, hello; I didn’t see you there. I don’t usually notice men who skulk,’ said Mrs Ludgate, coldly, and turned back to Mrs Sarobi. ‘The professor –’ she nodded towards Mr Askew – ‘will have told you that he’s my employer. That is, I am an employee in his household.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ said Mrs Sarobi, and glanced sideways at Mr Askew, her eyebrows slightly raised.

  ‘Um, Mrs Ludgate comes up to Oakstone to do the cleaning on a Friday afternoon,’ he expla
ined, scowling with embarrassment, and was rewarded by a brief smile from Mrs Sarobi.

  ‘That’s right. Oakstone is a big old chunk of a house – it’s grade two listed.’ She looked up to see if Mrs Sarobi had taken this in. ‘It’s important that somebody – somebody professional – keeps it in check and makes sure it doesn’t get itself degraded. We wouldn’t want it to slip down that list to a one, would we?’ She was so pleased with herself, she had to chuckle.

  ‘Hello, Doris; I’m pleased to see you so cheerful today.’ A small, plump woman had come up to them. She must have been in her mid fifties, but her skin was as smooth as milk and prettily aglow. She had very pale blue eyes but her friendly smile put warmth into her gaze. ‘I was very sorry to hear about … everything.’ As she put a smooth doll’s hand on Mrs Ludgate’s arm, it was clear that she really was sorry. Mrs Ludgate flinched, pulling her arm away and, for a moment, Mr Askew thought he saw something vulnerable swim through her gaze, like a detached duckling crossing a pond.

  ‘Not sure what you’re on about. I’m just fine, myself.’ She laughed hoarsely to emphasise.

  ‘But I heard—’ The doll-woman suddenly stopped herself; perhaps she too had detected the flaw in the armour. ‘I must have got the wrong end of the stick,’ she said, jovially.

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘Anyway, I actually came over to introduce myself to Mrs Sarobi.’ She turned to face the Afghani woman, who had retreated somewhat, in spite of her previous stoicism. ‘My name is Ann Chandler; I’m the chair of the local Women’s Institute.’

  ‘Nice to meet you.’ Mrs Sarobi smiled softly.

  ‘And … Professor Askew, is it?’

  ‘Ahem …’ He nodded and shook her outstretched hand. It was surprisingly firm, but moist like a child’s.

  ‘I heard that an elegant gentleman from London recently bought Oakstone. Pleased to meet you.’

  He had noticed her flattery and was grateful for it.

  ‘Such a beautiful old house,’ she continued. ‘A pity more people around here can’t see it …’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, feeling somewhat ungenerous. ‘Yes, that is, I prefer to be on my own, if at all possible.’

  Mrs Ludgate snorted and pressed her lips together.

  ‘Yes, I can understand that. Village life can be a bit intimidating at first,’ said Ann Chandler, smilingly, and turned back to Mrs Sarobi. ‘I was wondering whether you would be interested in joining the Mortford WI? Most of us are members now …’

  ‘Oh, well, what a surprise …’ She seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘I mean, I’m honoured, naturally, but are you sure you would like me in your group?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Why not?’

  ‘Well, it’s just that I thought the WI was mainly for the homegrown …’

  Ann Chandler laughed so that her rosy cheeks shuddered. ‘I’m sure that used to be the case, but we cannot afford to be so narrow-minded anymore. Where would that leave womankind, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, but just the same, perhaps we ought to have a vote about this?’ Mrs Ludgate interrupted, staring intensely at Mrs Chandler.

  ‘Nonsense. We don’t vote people into this community. And we are in dire need of a Skills Coordinator.’

  But Mrs Ludgate was not entirely convinced. ‘No one,’ she said and looked at the other three, each one in turn, ‘can say that I’m not an open-minded person.’ She stretched her neck a little, like a turtle, and added, ‘At least, not when it comes to skills … and coordination. But, for somebody to take on such a major role right from the start, it seems, well, out of order … or at least not quite proper. Wouldn’t you say, Mrs Chandler?’ She turned, deliberately, to the plump woman standing to her left.

  ‘Well, my dear, let’s not argue about it, shall we?’ The chair of the WI smiled so that her doll’s face took on a radiant, globe-like quality, like a very small moon.

  ‘There’s no need to worry,’ Mrs Sarobi said firmly. ‘I’m not one for groups, really, and I haven’t got time at the moment to get too engaged … I’d be happy to come for some of the meetings, though.’ She seemed calm enough as she spoke, but then something inside her flared. She turned to face Mrs Ludgate. ‘It’s not a competition, you know – life. It’s just about trying to be decent. To other people. And to oneself, for that matter.’

  Mrs Ludgate sulked and Mrs Sarobi rearranged some courgettes in a basket.

  Mrs Chandler, sensing some discomfort, turned back to Mr Askew. ‘Anyway, I’m delighted you’re putting some new life into Oakstone. It’s been empty for a while. I remember it from when I was a child; it seemed a jolly place … until … There was a boy. They said there was something not quite right about him – in terms of the mind. I forget what he was called—’ She stopped abruptly and looked down at her feet.

  ‘Bradley! I told you, didn’t I?’ Mrs Ludgate said triumphantly and gestured at Mr Askew. For a moment, they looked at each other, intently, each measuring the other.

  ‘Yes, that’s right; Michael Bradley was his name. But he disappeared at some point – never came back. After that, Oakstone was quite dreary. There were rumours something terrible happened to him as a young boy. But it’s all such a long time ago now …’

  ‘A scandal, no doubt,’ Mrs Ludgate suggested, cocking her head.

  ‘Mr Askew, are you okay?’ Mrs Sarobi asked, her eyes alive with concern. She reached out to touch him, but something, a look on his face, held her back.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbled, ‘I’m quite all right. I need … just need to get out. Some fresh air.’ As he pushed past the table and the astounded women, a few petals detached themselves from one of the white poppies and fell on to the floor.

  To always remember those eyes.

  After Michael, there were no friends, or, if there were, they were of no consequence, easily forgotten. In their place – or absence – Gabriel went for walks on the moor. He walked and walked. The rhythm of his steps pounded on his mind.

  In between the walks, during the hours and days when he outwardly lived his own life, he sat at the back of the classroom and listened to the drone of Miss Simmons’ voice as it listed Latin verbs along with the kings and queens of England and the rivers of Europe. Often enough, as the grey yarn of boredom was knitted into the afternoon, he wondered what the point of it all was. At least nobody bothered him anymore – he was left alone. After school, he would still go to Uncle Gerry’s cottage. As the twilight waned and emptied itself into evening darkness and the blackbirds in the trees were silenced, one after another, like gas lamps going out along a street, the cottage filled with what was no longer there. While Uncle Gerry slept off the day’s drink in his armchair by the fireplace, Gabriel would sometimes look up from his homework or his book with a sense that something had been left behind, like a ball on an abandoned playing field where the cries of the players are still ringing in the air. The emptiness in the cottage was full of Michael’s breath and, if he listened closely, he could still hear Michael’s voice and, sometimes, in his mind, he would answer.

  ‘Honest, Gabe, Biggles knew how to fly both Hurricanes and Spitfires! And he flew a lot faster than the Focke-Wulfs and Messerschmitts. Although they are actually quite good planes too …’

  ‘Yeah, I know that. But Algy was a really good pilot as well – they were best mates.’

  ‘Um, they were related, actually – cousins, I think.’

  ‘Or like brothers, even?’

  ‘Yeah, perhaps a bit like brothers.’

  *

  Shortly after the travelling fair visited Mortford, Michael had been taken out of the village school and sent to a private school in Ramleigh, which was only a few miles away. Mr Bradley had bought Michael a bicycle so that he could cycle to school. Gabriel only knew this because Uncle Gerry had told him. He had not seen Michael since the day at the Giant’s Table, but Uncle Gerry would sometimes meet Mr Bradley in the pub on a Saturday evening. Mr and Mrs Bradley must have known that something had happened, they must have noticed, b
ut it was clear that Michael had not told his parents any details, and Gabriel was greatly relieved by this. Relieved and puzzled, because it must have shown on Michael’s face, like he was sure it showed on his own. And the dreams that ripped opened the night – the dreams where he was the one pushed to the ground. Once again, he was the one eating grass. And Jim of Blackaton in iron armour. There were nights when he dared not fall asleep at all and the days that followed such nights were yellow and full of pain from a place somewhere behind his eyes. And yet, no one seemed to notice. But sometimes, when he was sober, Uncle Gerry would look at him strangely and ask why he would not play with Michael. He would shrug and mumble something about them not having so much in common anymore, but, while he spoke those words, shame would open its terrible, stinking jaws and breathe into his face so that he went all red and hot. At such times, Uncle Gerry looked very sad and shook his head.

  One Sunday in early September, when Gabriel reached the cottage, Uncle Gerry was in the yard oiling the chain of a rusty old bike, which was standing on its saddle. He looked up when he heard Gabriel approaching.

  ‘Hello there, Gabe; look what I got for you.’ He stood back, beaming.

  ‘For me?’

  ‘That’s right – Mr Green gave it to me in exchange for some stuff I did for him up at Chidcombe Farm.’

  Gabriel blinked and stared at the bike, which looked as if it had been dug out of a bog.

  Uncle Gerry noticed the look on his face and frowned. ‘I know it’s not new, like Michael’s bike, but, believe me, once I’ve straightened out the back wheel and cleaned it up a bit, it will be as good as any bike around here.’

  ‘It’s very nice, Uncle G. It’s just … well, I don’t know how to ride a bike.’

  ‘Easiest thing in the world, lad. Trust me, you’ll learn it in less than an hour.’

  ‘But where would I go?’ For some reason Gabriel felt that the bike was going to be a problem and he struggled to keep his sinking heart out of his voice. ‘I … I wouldn’t know where to ride it …’ His world had shrunk that much.