Soon it was empty. A meadow gouged with round, black scars.

‘I’m glad you showed up.’ Andrew’s obvious depression wrenched at Agnes’s heart. ‘I was hoping you would. I wasn’t sure if my little demonstration would embarrass you.’

‘Why should it?’

‘Because it’s not going to achieve anything, except a bit of publicity’

‘Driving your spade into the earth?’

‘Something like that.’

She thought for a second or two. ‘I hope the programme will do that.’

He said swiftly, ‘You can’t rely on it. You never know, do you?’ She must have looked a little taken aback and he backtracked: ‘Actually, my activities last night were the result of a rush of blood to the head.’

They had returned to the farmhouse where Andrew insisted on assembling a scratch meal. They sat at the table eating cheese with stale bread. Jed and Bel had left for London and the editing room. Agnes planned to join them later, via Flagge House, where she would check up on Bea.

‘Were you up all night?’ Craving something solid, she tackled the tough bread. ‘Weren’t you worried the fire might get out of control?’

Andrew sawed off a lump of cheese. The question amused him. ‘I have a pretty good idea of the land and the weather. The ground’s still wet and I may have looked demonic but I was keeping a close eye on everything. Anyway, the boys at the fire station would have been up in a trice if I had given them the word. It is still my field, you know.’

She wanted to seize a brush and paint out the circles under his eyes but she confined herself to leaning over and wiping a lick of grime from his cheek. ‘Any chance of you getting some sleep?’

Under the light, dispassionate gesture, he stilled. ‘Not yet.’ He slumped back in the chair, not exactly beaten but clearly at the edge. ‘That barrister knew all the right words. He knew that if he chose the right ones, that would be that and the case is wrapped. If you pay enough for the best manipulator, you get your way. That’s justice.’

She continued to chew the bread, praying that it stayed put in her stomach. Andrew stared out of the window. Eventually, she hazarded, ‘Work is a good remedy when things go wrong. At least, I found it to be so.’

‘You’re not giving in?’ he asked. ‘Not backing off over the film?’ His brows snapped together.

‘No. For what it’s worth, I was offering you the Campion patent for getting through.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’ He dug his fingers into his sticky, grimy hair. He watched Agnes chew the last of her bread. ‘We used to have tea, you know. Every day. High tea. With scones and cream. Cake. Sometimes one of Penny’s hams. She was good at all that. Penny had a picture of what life should be on the farm, which meant a lot to her. She made it work,’

He appeared to lose interest in the subject. ‘Do you think it’s too early for a whisky?’ He fetched the bottle and two glasses. Agnes took a sip and realized it was a mistake, but Andrew sucked down several mouth-fuls.

He stumbled through a confession and retraced the night’s events. The loading of the trailer, the drive in the dark, the stacking of the bales. Sweating and cursing. The wait. ‘I had gone to war. With my own land.’ He pushed his glass aside. ‘I ought to check on the fires before I get down to everything else. Do you want to come?’

Leaving the door wide open, they exchanged the muddle and incipient loss threatening the farmhouse kitchen for the heat of a summer’s day. The smell of burning was still almost sickening and the van was powdered with ash. Yet the day was quiet and clear, and the sun strong. Up on the moor, the heat and light had played tricks: bleaching out the colours and pushing them back into the far distance.

They retraced the path to the north field. Thickened by spiky growth, the hedgerow was wreathed in pale pink dog rose and honeysuckle. Andrew unsheathed his knife and cut off a length of the latter. ‘Here.’ He twined it into a rough crown. ‘Come here, Agnes.’

Drawn by the heat, the wild, fresh smells, the sound of skylarks, she moved obediently towards him.

‘Here.’ He placed the crown on her head, pressing it down over her forehead until she felt the sticky sap spread over her skin.

He assessed his handiwork.

She smiled up into the blue eyes and it must have been an invitation for he bent over and kissed her on the mouth. And she thought, Why not? Not being hampered by love had the effect of making her more curious, less flattened by emotion. Andrew smelt of fire, straw, sweat and whisky, and by inhaling these scents of earth and land and in kissing him she was taking a step to shake herself free of the ghosts.

‘You taste of summer.’ He kissed the hollow of her neck.

The crown of honeysuckle seemed faintly ridiculous and she took it off. ‘You’re very unusual, Andrew.’ She coloured. ‘I mean, it’s nice.’

‘Kissing someone is not so odd, is it?’ His strange intense expression was now replaced by the more normal flush of an aroused male.

‘No.’

He defused the awkwardness that had sprung up. ‘Come on, you can’t leave Tithings without visiting the bees. This is my party piece.’

Agnes allowed herself to be drawn towards them through the scented air. ‘Quiet,’ he ordered.

She strained to hear, and rising from the hives was a murmur. ‘What is it?’

‘They’re cooling the hives. It’s hot and they’ve been making honey.’

Agnes was fascinated. ‘They are extraordinary insects. They seem to have worked out how to live with each other.’

‘At a price,’ Andrew reminded her. ‘They kill off the drones.’

‘Even so.’ Inside the hives, the bees stepped up the fanning. Higher and faster.

‘If you come closer you can smell the particular forage for the day.’

She obeyed and caught the scent of wildness. Grasses, white clover, wild thyme. There were other possibilities, she thought. Unfolding wings that could liberate her.

He cleared his throat and she sensed what was coming. ‘Stay here tonight, Agnes.’

She traced the knotty joint of his broken finger with her own and experienced the panic of making a decision for which she was not ready. ‘Could you wait before I answer,’ she said.

20

Friday.

‘Do we want the electrolysis today?’

The beautician was new to the salon in Lymouth, obviously bored and more than a little distasteful of the tasks that she was paid to perform. Kitty requested the hand mirror and scanned her top lip for any traces of unwanted hair. You could never be sure when the markers of lost youth and dwindling hormones became obvious to everyone else. Because she did not want to see, Kitty knew she must ask to be told the truth.

Yes. There was one wispy hair and she directed the beautician to run the machine. The tiny prick hurt far more than its allocated franchise of pain. It hurt Kitty because it had been necessary.

‘I think,’ said the beautician, who was reduced to a huge eye looking at Kitty through the magnifying light, ‘we should zap a few veins as well. Are you happy for me to do them?’

‘I suppose so.’

That process was far more uncomfortable, especially in areas near the nose where Kitty was sensitive. The electric current aggravated the nerves and she ended up sneezing and weeping a stream of tears. Tomorrow, she knew from experience, would be bad and her skin would be blotchy and raised. Still, the situation was manageable for Julian had rung to say that there was an emergency board meeting, which was scheduled to continue through the weekend. ‘Sorry, darling, it can’t be helped. I’ll explain when I see you.’

At first, Kitty had wanted to protest but then a great weariness with the condition of her life sapped her will. She made no comment, except to say that she was sorry and, of course, he must do as he wished.

And she should do as she wished?

Catching her at odd moments, these infant stirrings of protest were in danger of becoming the norm, and Kitty discovered that she relished them, welcomed them, even. They introduced a different note into the familiar lament in her head, of which she was growing tired. But for the irritants of the machine, the shuffle of the beautician’s clogs and the smell of burnt capillary, she was entirely at liberty to think as she wished.

She flexed her finger, and felt the slick of moisture from the cream that had been applied. What was she doing engaged in pushing back time? Perhaps… here Kitty strained for the right words… perhaps, in itself, that was a waste of time. Perhaps she was wasting time in tackling it.

‘Dear me,’ said the beautician. ‘These are toughies. Have you been sitting in the sun?’

The needle dug into the flesh of Kitty’s cheek. After all, she could choose not to engage in such a difficult – no, impossible – battle. Beauty, Kitty had learned in the hard school of survival, was in the eye of the beholder and mattered. Forget the nonsense about inner beauty, a thesis peddled only, she noticed, by those who had no pretensions to looks. Certainly, in the past, Kitty had ignored it in favour of the philosophy that worked. And yet, now that she was growing older, it was going to fail her.

Under the pink blanket, Kitty sighed and entertained the radical vision of life uncluttered by considerations of her beauty. No Friday preparations. No covert glances in the mirror. A mind washed clean and free of the tyranny of scrutiny.

Yes, she was free to be free, if she wished.

The beautician embarked on the final challenge of Kitty’s left cheek. But it was not as simple as that. Kitty loved Julian and, to be free, it would be necessary not to love him.

‘Leg wax?’ intoned the beautician.

Kitty stretched out a slim leg in the manner of the sacrificial victim.