Beasley, the spinster put out a hand, barring Peggy's way.
'Satisfied, are we, Mrs Palmer?' she said. 'A person can be driven only so far, you know. But no doubt you think you know best.'
Ivy turned on her heel, and proceeded past the lettuces and marrow bed, and on down to the compost heap at the bottom of the garden. She stayed there, looking out over the quiet fields, until Ellen and Doris joined her, and then without speaking they continued on their way.
Peggy fumbled with her back-door key and almost fell into the kitchen. She collapsed on to a chair and thumped at her temples with clenched fists.
'What the bloody hell are you doing to that woman?' she yelled, and Gilbert shot out of her basket and through the cat flap in alarm.
A long time went by and Peggy did not move. The kitchen was silent and still, and then Gilbert-returned, rubbing against Peggy's leg and meowing softly for her supper. At last Peggy stood up and went wearily to the fridge, taking out a half-full tin of cat food and spooning the strong-smelling meat into a yellow plastic dish.
'It's no good,' said Peggy. 'What I'm doing is wicked, and there are no excuses. I shall have to explain to Bill, and he'll have to accept it.' She shivered. I have to get out of here, she thought, get some fresh air. I feel dirty.
She pulled on a cardigan and went out of the back door again, latching the side gate and setting off in the direction of the church. It was after closing time for the gardens, but a few people still lingered, sitting on the bench on the Green in the evening sunlight, and strolling in groups by the river.
One by one the cars drove off, people staring out at Peggy as she crossed the road without looking, causing a big grey Mercedes to stop with a jolt and hoot angrily.
She came to the bridge and for once did not stop to look at the water. Her mind was blank, and her eyes saw only the road beneath her.
Finally she stopped, and realised where she was. There was the headstone, so sadly new and clean. 'FRANK ARTHUR PALMER - Died 6.12.1992. aged 53 years. Beloved husband of MARGARET. "Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new." Peggy stood looking at it for several minutes, and then sat down on the warm grass by the gentle mound. 'It's a mess, Frank,' she said. 'You would be ashamed of me. Come to that, I'm ashamed of myself. But I'm so afraid that I can't stop it. Bill means too much to me now, and he is so unhappy, always will be unhappy with that woman, whatever I do or say. It isn't fair, Frank, it isn't fair at all.
A blackbird sitting high above her on the church roof began his liquid, magical evening song, and she looked up. The sky was pale and limpid, and the breeze too slight to stir the heavy black yews. She looked down at Frank's grave, and put her hands on the short grass, digging her nails into the turf, deeper and deeper. 'Frank,' she said, and repeated his name desperately as her fingers grew black with earth and became entangled in the mat of roots.
'Don't do that, Peggy,' said a woman's voice, 'you'll do yourself no good, my dear. Come away now, come away.'
It was Doreen Price, large and comforting, and Peggy allowed herself to be led out of the churchyard to where
Doreen had parked her car.
'Hop in,' Doreen said. 'We'll go back to the farm and have a nice cup of tea.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She's had one husband and lost him, and now she's well on the way to snatching somebody else's, said Ivy Beasley to her empty front room. For once there was no answering voice in her head, and Ivy felt a moment of panic.
Mother? I said Pushy Peg's driving that poor Joyce round the bend...Nothing. No sharp rejoinder, no goad to urge her on.
Ivy walked into the kitchen and began to fill the kettle. After the drama at the Turners', she and Doris and Ellen had continued round the other gardens, their enthusiasm dampened by Bill's humiliation. Even old Ellen was subdued, and after they had walked round the Hall terraces and
'Satisfied, are we, Mrs Palmer?' she said. 'A person can be driven only so far, you know. But no doubt you think you know best.'
Ivy turned on her heel, and proceeded past the lettuces and marrow bed, and on down to the compost heap at the bottom of the garden. She stayed there, looking out over the quiet fields, until Ellen and Doris joined her, and then without speaking they continued on their way.
Peggy fumbled with her back-door key and almost fell into the kitchen. She collapsed on to a chair and thumped at her temples with clenched fists.
'What the bloody hell are you doing to that woman?' she yelled, and Gilbert shot out of her basket and through the cat flap in alarm.
A long time went by and Peggy did not move. The kitchen was silent and still, and then Gilbert-returned, rubbing against Peggy's leg and meowing softly for her supper. At last Peggy stood up and went wearily to the fridge, taking out a half-full tin of cat food and spooning the strong-smelling meat into a yellow plastic dish.
'It's no good,' said Peggy. 'What I'm doing is wicked, and there are no excuses. I shall have to explain to Bill, and he'll have to accept it.' She shivered. I have to get out of here, she thought, get some fresh air. I feel dirty.
She pulled on a cardigan and went out of the back door again, latching the side gate and setting off in the direction of the church. It was after closing time for the gardens, but a few people still lingered, sitting on the bench on the Green in the evening sunlight, and strolling in groups by the river.
One by one the cars drove off, people staring out at Peggy as she crossed the road without looking, causing a big grey Mercedes to stop with a jolt and hoot angrily.
She came to the bridge and for once did not stop to look at the water. Her mind was blank, and her eyes saw only the road beneath her.
Finally she stopped, and realised where she was. There was the headstone, so sadly new and clean. 'FRANK ARTHUR PALMER - Died 6.12.1992. aged 53 years. Beloved husband of MARGARET. "Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new." Peggy stood looking at it for several minutes, and then sat down on the warm grass by the gentle mound. 'It's a mess, Frank,' she said. 'You would be ashamed of me. Come to that, I'm ashamed of myself. But I'm so afraid that I can't stop it. Bill means too much to me now, and he is so unhappy, always will be unhappy with that woman, whatever I do or say. It isn't fair, Frank, it isn't fair at all.
A blackbird sitting high above her on the church roof began his liquid, magical evening song, and she looked up. The sky was pale and limpid, and the breeze too slight to stir the heavy black yews. She looked down at Frank's grave, and put her hands on the short grass, digging her nails into the turf, deeper and deeper. 'Frank,' she said, and repeated his name desperately as her fingers grew black with earth and became entangled in the mat of roots.
'Don't do that, Peggy,' said a woman's voice, 'you'll do yourself no good, my dear. Come away now, come away.'
It was Doreen Price, large and comforting, and Peggy allowed herself to be led out of the churchyard to where
Doreen had parked her car.
'Hop in,' Doreen said. 'We'll go back to the farm and have a nice cup of tea.'
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She's had one husband and lost him, and now she's well on the way to snatching somebody else's, said Ivy Beasley to her empty front room. For once there was no answering voice in her head, and Ivy felt a moment of panic.
Mother? I said Pushy Peg's driving that poor Joyce round the bend...Nothing. No sharp rejoinder, no goad to urge her on.
Ivy walked into the kitchen and began to fill the kettle. After the drama at the Turners', she and Doris and Ellen had continued round the other gardens, their enthusiasm dampened by Bill's humiliation. Even old Ellen was subdued, and after they had walked round the Hall terraces and
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