of Joseph’s left ear. ‘Now then.’
‘Cold morning for it?’ Joseph persisted.
‘Aye.’
‘Still. It isn’t snowing.’
‘True.’
Gus seemed to think this was quite enough wild socialising. His gaze returned to his plate. Joseph wasn’t offended by the monosyllabic response. He’d expected it. He knew the man of old, and suspected some undiagnosed syndrome.
Zoe, of course, had managed to make a friend of Gus. She’d done that with people, with a gift for drawing out their stories and making them feel valued. She’d known more about Gus’s life than Abigail did.
‘There’s no syndrome,’ she’d once told Joseph. ‘Just isolation. Gus was brought up on a moorland farm, no playmates but the farmyard cats, snowed in for months of the year. He never saw anyone but his parents from one week to the next.’
‘School?’
‘An ordeal. He left as soon as possible.’
Zoe and Joseph were out walking with the children. The moors were a purple haze, laced with the tang of heather. Bees flickered in the shimmering air. She carried baby Theo in a sling across her front while Scarlet rode, singing, on Joseph’s shoulders.
‘I like the idea of an isolated farmhouse,’ mused Joseph. ‘Way up here, with just the children and you. Our own private world.’
‘Me too! Let’s pull up the drawbridge and be happy.’
‘I’m already happy,’ he protested truthfully, putting his arm around her. Zoe had been well for months, despite Theo’s arrival. He hoped they’d turned a corner.
‘I wish I could always feel like this,’ she said wistfully. ‘It’s not much fun sometimes, living inside my head.’ She took his hand and held it to her cheek. They walked side by side, joined at the hip, perfectly in step.
Abigail was looking at him. Digby had leaped onto her lap and was kneading her trousers. ‘All right?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ he replied absently.
‘I hear your dad’s living abroad.’
‘Um . . .’ Joseph was mesmerised. He could feel the warmth of Zoe’s cheek, the swing of her strides alongside his own, the light pressure of her hipbone. She seemed more real than Abigail did. He made an effort to pull himself together. ‘Dad used to buy a lottery ticket every single week. It was his only hobby, watching those bloody numbers come up on the telly. A week after mum divorced him, he hit the jackpot.’
‘So he’s a millionaire?’
‘Dunno about that, but he raked in enough to retire to the Costa Blanca. We’re not close. He’s hardly ever met his grandchildren.’
Abigail ran her knuckles down Digby’s stripy back. ‘Silly fool,’ she said, with unexpected vehemence. ‘Always was. Not bad, just soft in the head. You off now, Gus?’
Gus was zipping up his overalls, mumbling about having a look at a trough. He left without further discussion.
‘Mum died,’ said Joseph. ‘Did Marie tell you?’
‘She did. In your sister’s opinion, poor Irene died of a broken heart. It was the shame that finished her off. She couldn’t stand the shame of being your mother.’
Joseph’s hunger abruptly dissipated. He dropped his knife and fork. ‘That’s exactly what Marie said at the funeral! Her very words. They let me out for the day so I could bury my mother, and my lovely sister told me I’d killed another woman.’
‘And what did you reply?’
‘Nothing. I had nothing to say. I thought she was probably right.’
‘Pig’s trotters,’ retorted Abigail. ‘Your mum was a good lass, don’t get me wrong, but anyone who liked their fish and chips and cider and smoked as many fags as Irene Scott did was asking for heart disease somewhere along the line. You could see it coming. If anyone’s to blame, it’s your dad for making her so bloody miserable she gave up on herself. He’s neither use nor ornament, that fella.’
‘Maybe shame was the last straw.’
‘Maybe that final packet of Benson and Hedges was the last straw! There’s nothing to be gained by blaming
‘Cold morning for it?’ Joseph persisted.
‘Aye.’
‘Still. It isn’t snowing.’
‘True.’
Gus seemed to think this was quite enough wild socialising. His gaze returned to his plate. Joseph wasn’t offended by the monosyllabic response. He’d expected it. He knew the man of old, and suspected some undiagnosed syndrome.
Zoe, of course, had managed to make a friend of Gus. She’d done that with people, with a gift for drawing out their stories and making them feel valued. She’d known more about Gus’s life than Abigail did.
‘There’s no syndrome,’ she’d once told Joseph. ‘Just isolation. Gus was brought up on a moorland farm, no playmates but the farmyard cats, snowed in for months of the year. He never saw anyone but his parents from one week to the next.’
‘School?’
‘An ordeal. He left as soon as possible.’
Zoe and Joseph were out walking with the children. The moors were a purple haze, laced with the tang of heather. Bees flickered in the shimmering air. She carried baby Theo in a sling across her front while Scarlet rode, singing, on Joseph’s shoulders.
‘I like the idea of an isolated farmhouse,’ mused Joseph. ‘Way up here, with just the children and you. Our own private world.’
‘Me too! Let’s pull up the drawbridge and be happy.’
‘I’m already happy,’ he protested truthfully, putting his arm around her. Zoe had been well for months, despite Theo’s arrival. He hoped they’d turned a corner.
‘I wish I could always feel like this,’ she said wistfully. ‘It’s not much fun sometimes, living inside my head.’ She took his hand and held it to her cheek. They walked side by side, joined at the hip, perfectly in step.
Abigail was looking at him. Digby had leaped onto her lap and was kneading her trousers. ‘All right?’ she asked.
‘Fine,’ he replied absently.
‘I hear your dad’s living abroad.’
‘Um . . .’ Joseph was mesmerised. He could feel the warmth of Zoe’s cheek, the swing of her strides alongside his own, the light pressure of her hipbone. She seemed more real than Abigail did. He made an effort to pull himself together. ‘Dad used to buy a lottery ticket every single week. It was his only hobby, watching those bloody numbers come up on the telly. A week after mum divorced him, he hit the jackpot.’
‘So he’s a millionaire?’
‘Dunno about that, but he raked in enough to retire to the Costa Blanca. We’re not close. He’s hardly ever met his grandchildren.’
Abigail ran her knuckles down Digby’s stripy back. ‘Silly fool,’ she said, with unexpected vehemence. ‘Always was. Not bad, just soft in the head. You off now, Gus?’
Gus was zipping up his overalls, mumbling about having a look at a trough. He left without further discussion.
‘Mum died,’ said Joseph. ‘Did Marie tell you?’
‘She did. In your sister’s opinion, poor Irene died of a broken heart. It was the shame that finished her off. She couldn’t stand the shame of being your mother.’
Joseph’s hunger abruptly dissipated. He dropped his knife and fork. ‘That’s exactly what Marie said at the funeral! Her very words. They let me out for the day so I could bury my mother, and my lovely sister told me I’d killed another woman.’
‘And what did you reply?’
‘Nothing. I had nothing to say. I thought she was probably right.’
‘Pig’s trotters,’ retorted Abigail. ‘Your mum was a good lass, don’t get me wrong, but anyone who liked their fish and chips and cider and smoked as many fags as Irene Scott did was asking for heart disease somewhere along the line. You could see it coming. If anyone’s to blame, it’s your dad for making her so bloody miserable she gave up on herself. He’s neither use nor ornament, that fella.’
‘Maybe shame was the last straw.’
‘Maybe that final packet of Benson and Hedges was the last straw! There’s nothing to be gained by blaming
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