‘Ivory silk?’ breathed Jennie.

‘Yes, and then his voice drifted downstairs, all American and husky. “What are you doing, Honey?” And she went all pink and stammered, “Oh, I-I guess he is here, after all.” ’

We all paused wistfully in our peony-trimming.

‘Sex all day,’ pronounced Jennie at length. ‘Dreamy.’

‘And maybe he really was tied up?’ mused Peggy, going back to her zinnias.

Back in Jennie’s hall, though, facing my friend now, a thought occurred. ‘But what will we say to everyone else? You know, Frank, Odd Bob, Dickie Frowbisher and everyone else who wants to join?’

‘We’ll tell them to get stuffed,’ Jennie said firmly. She squared her shoulders. ‘This is an exclusive club, Poppy, not a free-for-all. We allowed Saintly Sue to join to show willing, and now Hope and Chad, but that’s our limit. We won’t get in anyone’s sitting room otherwise, for heaven’s sake.’

I nodded in agreement as I left with the children, but knew this was thin. Angie had a huge drawing room. And quite a few noses would be out of joint. Ours was a small village. Oh, to hell with them, I thought, as I let myself in. Jennie was right. We had to be just a little bit selfish occasionally. And the Americans would certainly inject some glamour.

As I went into the kitchen, the answering machine was flashing. I pressed it absently as I lowered Archie from my hip, watching him toddle off to his playpen, clamouring to get in. It was pretty much his favourite place these days. Wasn’t it supposed to be a prison? Would a child psychologist tell me he felt safe in there, or something heart-stopping? As I lifted him inside, a deep male voice politely asked me to make another appointment, whenever it suited. Nothing drastic, but something had cropped up and he wondered if I could pop in and talk about it. Sam, the solicitor.

Well, obviously it had been a while since a deep male voice had asked me to do anything, politely or otherwise, surrounded as I was by women and children. But had there been any need to ring back immediately? Before I’d even taken Clemmie’s coat off? I got through to Janice, who made me an appointment. When I got off the phone, I moved around the house feeling lighter, brighter somehow. More energized. I went to the window to smile out at the day. Yes, that’ll be the Americans, I thought. That’s what’s put a skip in my step. The irrational desire to play the message again – which I did, three times – was only to make sure I’d got it straight. About it being nothing drastic. And nothing to worry about. That was all. I turned up the radio as I passed and sang along with Westlife, then I swept Clemmie into my arms to twirl about the room with me. She threw her head back and laughed with delight.




13

On Monday night at choir practice I thought we were going to be lynched. Three people on the way to church told me it was outrageous they weren’t allowed to join, particularly since we’d allowed the Armitages; and once I’d achieved the church and was in the choir stalls, Sylvia told me she’d even moved her bridge evening.

‘We decided Wednesdays were much better,’ she told me firmly, turning round from the pew in front. ‘So I’ll read Angus’s book when he’s finished and see you there. We thought one copy between the two of us would be fine.’ Sylvia was notoriously tight.

‘No, Sylvia, I’m sorry,’ Jennie butted in beside me – Sylvia had pointedly addressed me, not her – ‘we’ve reached our limit. Otherwise the group is too large and people feel intimidated. They won’t pipe up.’

I doubt if Sylvia had ever felt intimidated in her life, particularly when it came to piping up. I also doubt whether anyone in the village had ever stood up to her. Her left eye began to twitch manically and she looked fit to burst her tubes. Happily Saintly Sue was tapping her lectern importantly, reminding us we’d be singing at the real thing soon so it had better be good, and Luke was flying through the door, so Sylvia didn’t have a chance to come to the boil. But I saw Angus, who’d been studying his brogues during this little exchange, glance up to give Jennie an admiring look. Whether he’d be allowed out to play with the rest of us now was, of course, debatable. I had a feeling he’d be in his carpet slippers, toying gloomily with his cauliflower cheese in front of Panorama. Sylvia wouldn’t want him mixing with the Americans if she wasn’t allowed to; although her curiosity might get the better of her. She might want him there as a spy, taking notes, so she could quiz him later.

As Luke bounded boyishly up the steps to the organ, blond hair flopping, he flashed me a grin and I smiled back. Smiled, though, not glowed. And as Angie and Jennie either side of me exchanged a delighted glance, like proud parents – one they clearly thought I didn’t notice – I hoped I wasn’t going to disappoint anyone. He was nice. Very nice. And good-looking too. So perhaps it was just the fact that he was always late and then basked self-consciously in the tiny spotlight this afforded that annoyed me? Or maybe he was genuinely busy and lost track of time? At Peggy’s I’d liked him more, I decided, as he played the opening chord in a dramatic manner. We’d perhaps even had a moment as we’d chatted over a glass of wine by the darkened window – which, let’s face it, was a far more conducive environment than this one. The organ didn’t help, this chilly, damp church didn’t help, and as we all launched into the Gloria and Molly into ‘Nights in White Satin’, I knew that didn’t help either.

After choir practice, I found myself walking out of church alone. Angie and Jennie were up ahead discussing dishes Jennie was making for Angie’s freezer, when Luke materialized beside me.

‘Hi.’ He pushed his fringe out of his eyes.

‘Oh, hi, Luke.’

I’d been looking in my bag for some money for Frankie. I hated rooting around for it while she stood waiting; liked to have it ready, so the transaction was swift and clean, prey as I was to the usual ridiculous middle-class hang-ups about paying anyone to work for me. As he wheeled his bike beside me, I eyed it warily. Hm. Now admittedly it was just a common or garden pushbike, but one thing could lead to another and before you know it he could be head to foot in blue Lycra.

‘I thought we pretty much nailed it tonight.’

I couldn’t help smiling at his rock ’n’ roll way of putting it. ‘I agree. We’re nearly there.’

Don’t be mean, Poppy, he’s just making conversation. And he was satisfyingly tall and slim but not skinny, I decided, as he strolled beside me in the light of a full moon.

‘D’you find it hard, that he’s here?’ he asked, glancing around. That endeared him to me immediately. Many people would have conveniently forgotten my husband was amongst us.

‘Not in the least. For one thing I don’t believe in ghosts, and for that reason I’ve always found graveyards rather comforting places.’ I thought of the one I visited quite regularly on the other side of Aylesbury. ‘Quite sleepy and peaceful and not remotely spooky, even at night. I’m glad he’s here and not in some urn on my mantelpiece. It means the children can come later if they want to. Have a chat.’

‘And even if there are ghosts, who’s to say they’d be more scary than the living? I can’t help thinking they’d be rather serene and calm, not having to live in the real world any more. Being well out of it.’

‘Exactly.’

We walked on.

‘I used to be fascinated by tombstones. Still am a bit,’ he admitted. ‘Imagining the people, their lives.’

‘Oh, me too,’ I said, surprised.

‘I mean, look at this.’ We stopped at a lichen-covered stone. ‘Imelda Ruskin, beloved wife of Arthur Ruskin.’

‘Yes, I know. When equally beloved wives, Rachael and Isabella,’ I pointed, ‘are buried over there.’

‘And Isabella was only twenty-two when she died,’ he reminded me, as we paused at her grave. It was one I knew well, had often wondered about. ‘Childbirth, d’you think?’ He nodded at the tiny grave beside her. ‘We know she was mother of Patrick.’

‘Or poison, to move Arthur on to wife number two perhaps?’

He laughed. Shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? And was Arthur a warty old dog exercising a spot of droit de seigneur or a dashing young blade?’

‘Oh, a young blade,’ I said emphatically.

Arthur had always been a bit of an attractive cad in my eyes. Cutting a swathe through the damsels in the village, who all swooned for him, before popping his clogs elsewhere, somewhere more exotic. For Arthur wasn’t buried along with his wives in this churchyard. And nor would I be, I determined suddenly. Wouldn’t stay here for ever, to be slotted in beside Phil.

‘D’you ever make it up to London, Poppy?’ Luke said easily. ‘I thought we could have lunch.’

Well, I’d pretty much known he was going to ask me something like that. But London. No, I didn’t, as a rule.

‘Or a pub lunch here?’ He waved his hand at the Rose and Crown.

‘No, I make it to London,’ I said, thinking of Arthur and his travels. ‘I’d like that. Thanks.’

‘Good. I’ll book a table somewhere. West End? I imagine you’ll be shopping.’

‘Oh, er, yes. I imagine.’

‘What about next Tuesday?’

‘Perfect.’

We’d reached my gate now. Stood facing each other in the moonlight. ‘Goodnight, Poppy.’ He reached out and tucked a strand of hair back behind my ear, before lightly kissing my cheek.