A Man's Dying

By Zois Books

One of Joe's four daughters, Martha, believes there's something wrong with the will, which leaves the farm to Joe's youngest child, Gregory, his only son. Martha begins to investigate and soon gets the support of her sister, Alex, a superintendent in the local police force. Perhaps Joe was helped to die, and perhaps Gregory's comfortable life, and the perfect marriage to a glamorous wife have been built on quicksand. As things disintegrate, the family needs to pull together. But one suspicious death is bound to lead to another. Soon the shocking truth emerges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zois Books
• Release date: Dec 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370593965

Zois Books

Zois Books is a new, independent publisher committed to producing affordable, quality ebooks by new authors. Our first two titles were published to coincide with our launch in September, 2015. We plan to launch two titles every three months—memoir, fiction, short stories, history, and philosophy. We mean to grow our list as quickly as we can.

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Contents

Contents

Preface

Cast of Characters

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

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Publication Details

Preface

A Man's Dying is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

●●●●

Dedicated to Beth Davies

Cast of Characters

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THE LUCEY FAMILY

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Joe Lucey (70): Farmer, owner of Cothorn Farm, husband of Irene Lucey, father of Alex Lucey, Martha Brown, Clare Lucey, Dinah Lucey and Gregory Lucey

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Irene Lucey (69): Wife of Joe Lucey, mother of Alex Lucey, Martha Brown, Clare Lucey, Dinah Lucey and Gregory Lucey

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Alex Lucey (43): Eldest daughter of Joe and Irene Lucey, Superintendent in South Midlands Metropolitan Police Force

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Martha Brown (41): Second born daughter of Joe and Irene Lucey, owner-manager of a mobile transport café

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Clare Lucey (34): Third born twin daughter of Joe and Irene Lucey, viola player in the early music quintet The Pepys Players

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Dinah Lucey (34): Twin of Clare Lucey, violinist in the early music quintet The Pepys Players, partner of Lev Delaney

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Gregory Lucey (29): Last born and only son of Joe and Irene Lucey, husband of Angela Lucey, partner in the Cothorn Farm company JG Lucey and Son

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PARTNERS OF THE LUCEY FAMILY

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Shangara Singh Chana (44): Partner of Alex Lucey. Superintendent in the South Midlands Metropolitan Police Force

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Angela Lucey (27): (Née Pritchard) Wife of Gregory Lucey

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Ray Wellesley (40): Close friend of Martha Brown

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Lev Delaney (35): Partner of Dinah Lucey cellist in The Pepys Players

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Roly Preston (37): Partner of Clare Lucey oboist in The Pepys Players

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EMPLOYED BY THE LUCEY FAMILY

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Zac Decorsey (31): Stockman and general farm worker

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Cheryl Clark (44): Daily help

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Pat (64): Assistant in Martha Lucey’s transport café

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Lorna (35): Assistant in Martha Lucey’s transport café

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RELATED TO THE LUCEY FAMILY

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Suzanne Pritchard (53): Mother of Angela Lucey, mother-in-law to Gregory Lucey

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Michael Pritchard (58): Father of Angela Lucey, father-in-law to Gregory Lucey

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Peter Dyeson (28): Cousin and friend of Gregory Lucey, practicing vet in Cornwall

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Isobel Dyeson (29): Wife of Peter Dyeson, qualified vet and co-director of the veterinary practice in Cornwall

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Ann Vanucci (née Dyeson) (35): Older sister of Peter Dyeson, cousin to Gregory Lucey, architect and company director

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OTHER CHARACTERS

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Marion Decorsey (67): Mother of Zac Decorsey

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Giles Hepton (30):Solicitor, schoolfriend of Gregory Lucey

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Hugo Hepton (63): Solicitor, father of Giles Hepton

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Shirley Mack (63): Clerk at Hepton & Hepton

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Bill Pane (59): Neighbour of Irene Lucey

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Alan Pane (36):Bill Pane's son

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Rev Tony Cousemaker (50): The vicar of All Saints’ Church, Triverton

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Drew Tomkins (78): Member of All Saints’ Church Funding Committee

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DI Chase (44): Mercia Police

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SI Padgett (35):Mercia Police

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WPC Gittings(26):Mercia Police

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CI Andy McLoughlan (60): Mercia Police

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Ralph Werner (70): American with a second home in Venice

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Prologue

A man's dying is more the survivors' affair than his own.

Thomas Mann, 'The Magic Mountain'

Despite the freezing air, Joe Lucey's blood boiled, his grip on the old pitchfork so vicelike his knuckles strained white. He hurled the bales of fodder from the flat-bed truck to the beef cattle herding towards him.

The cattle's hides glowed auburn in the winter sunshine. As they advanced, hesitantly, heads low, nostrils flaring, Joe made a bitter comparison between these young bullocks and the penned-up beasts in his son's care.

He straightened for a breather, staring at the skyline, making an effort to focus on his plans for the morning, to calm down.

The flat-bed lurched as one of the herd shoved its weight against the vehicle. The old man turned too quickly and, as he fell, he braced himself for injury: a black eye, a sprained wrist.

His skull took the impact, a hammer-blow against the tailgate.

Later—he didn't know how long—he was roused by the approach of a footfall through the frozen pasture, human not cattle. He couldn't unlock how to move, not even an eyelid, though the effort knifed pain into his right ankle.

The tread drew closer, the snap of grass blades sharper, and he sensed a chill across his face, a figure between himself and the sun.

He waited to hear who was there. No one spoke.

He struggled to mouth words of his own, to appeal for help, but could not locate his voice. 

The sun's rays returned and the rhythm of footsteps beat again, quicker this time and fading. He felt the sun grow stronger, soothing his pain, warming his heart.  Soon he was bathed in sunshine, which conjured an image from years ago of his two oldest daughters, running towards his open arms on the beach at Woolacombe.

It reminded him that he'd wanted to see Martha today but before he could chase the thought, the lowing of one of the cattle rolled into his mind, irresistibly languorous, dissolving all to oblivion.

Chapter 1

Thursday, 7 February

IRENE NEVER ROSE AND SHONE. Even when she'd done the school run it had been a losing game and, four days out of five, the kids were left to cross an empty playground long after the bell. In those days, coping with sleep-deprivation turned her into a scold. Now she had the luxury of surfacing in her own time, in a bedroom separate from her husband's, she felt herself a less defensive, kinder woman.

Today, she came down to the kitchen in her nightdress. The radio murmured by the dishwasher. She ignored it, picking up the kettle from the range to fill with enough water for a pot of tea. As she set it down, the hot plate bit with a hiss.

Irene warmed her back against the cooker, noting the leavings of Joe's breakfast: the gritty toast crumbs on a side plate, a jammy knife. She was ruminating on how long last year's blackcurrant jam might last when the kitchen door shuddered, the aftershock of a slam of the outer backdoor. Irene heard the grate of Joe's work boots across the flags of the utility-room they called the 'scullery'. She headed to see if her husband fancied sharing her pot of tea.

Before her hand touched the doorknob Joe's voice barked out on the other side, So, you've bothered to come in?

He was having another go at Gregory, whose office, like her husband's opened off the scullery. Irene couldn't hear her son's reply. Whatever it was didn't calm Joe.

"No you haven't! I saw you drive up not five minutes ago."

Irene checked the kitchen clock. It showed just after nine. She edged nearer the door, catching Gregory's injured tone, then Joe's furious "Because you have stock to care for! You can't neglect stock. Pig units don't run themselves. You wanted the damn thing, not me. It's your responsibility."

Dad, you say it's my responsibility but, without even consulting me, you've sacked my stockman. Gregory's words, cultured and aggrieved, matched Joe's indignation on the other side of the door. At least he'd had the sense to talk face to face.

The kettle was boiling, its lid rattling. Irene left her listening post to drop two teabags into a pot and empty the kettle over them. She and Joe hardly ever argued now. Gregory was the butt of Joe's temper these days. She added milk to the tea she'd poured and took a sip. The men's voices outside grumbled on.

He wasn't thieving, Dad. Nothing's gone missing.

I saw him! He'd got one of my golf clubs rammed under his coat. When I challenged him, he hadn't a word to say.

The subject of Zac Decorsey nettled Irene. It probed old feelings of guilt. She was glad to hear he'd gone. At last Gregory's voice took on an appeasing tone.

Look, Dad. I'm on it, okay. I'll sort it.

Irene let out her breath. She heard her husband grunt, then the backdoor bang again. At least Joe hadn't seen her in her nightdress. He wouldn't have said anything but, in that mood, she would have felt his disapproval.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

At five past ten Irene left the warmth of the oil-fired central heating for her daily round of the orchard. Today the sky was gauzy, bearing a bright sun, which scissored sharp outlines for each twig and blade of grass. The freezing air nipped at her cheeks, raising her spirits.

Soon she was filling the last of the bird feeders, which hung like skeletal fruit from low branches. On the replenished cylinders, tits and finches were already clustering while, in the high oaks fringing the orchard, magpies rattled out warnings. As soon as Irene left they would drive out the small birds like riot police.

She turned back to the house, her footsteps showing green in the stiff iced grass. As she reached the orchard gate, Cheryl's scooter buzzed up the back drive to park on the top yard.

Irene joined her cleaner and they both trooped through the scullery to the warmth of the kitchen. She left Cheryl to put on the kettle to make coffee—Gold Blend instant, not the ground kind the family used after meals.

There was a police car at Marion Decorsey's last night. Cheryl launched straight in with the gossip. Don't know what it was about. It stayed a long time. She fished a nylon tabard from a shopping-bag and arranged it over her spare frame.

So, Joe was right about Zac Decorsey's thieving. She made an effort to be charitable. That woman's not had it easy, a single parent…

Granted. But she's a funny one. Cheryl flexed her fingers into rubber gloves. I think…

Gregory walked into the kitchen, a quilted Barbour zipped to the neck. Even in work clothes he managed to look well-groomed. Irene knew her son cut a handsome figure and she couldn't help but feel pride. He must have been sorting whatever problem Joe had spotted in the pig unit. His cheekbones were flushed, his eyes bright from the cold. He nodded to Cheryl.

Morning, Gregory. Cheryl batted her eyelashes.

I won't be here for lunch, Mum. I'm picking up supplies. I'll get a sandwich in Fewdley.

I heard your father, Irene said, patting her son's sleeve.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

She left Cheryl to clear the breakfast things then to vacuum downstairs. Irene had a garden catalogue to go through. She sat by the window on the broad landing, leaning back into what had been her nursing chair when the children were babies. She'd brought a biro, ready to tick off any perennials and shrubs she fancied.

She flicked through the pages but her mind went back to Gregory and Joe, always at loggerheads these days. Not for the first time she wondered whether, if their first child had been male, things would have been different. Four daughters by way of trying for a boy—not many women would have been as accommodating. The generation gap between father and son seemed to have doubled since Gregory had finished his agricultural studies and become a partner in the farm.

Her eyes were caught by the illustration of a climbing rose. 'Intense raspberry and clove scent, flowers throughout May to September.' She scrawled a big tick across the page.

The Hoover droned downstairs. Irene frowned, willing Cheryl to be careful of the dining-table legs. She considered some fritillaries, admiring their snakeskin markings. Three varieties won tentative ticks.

Her wish-list of plants was halted when Joe failed to return for a mid-morning appointment with a land-agent. Irene was flustered and annoyed as she turned the visitor away, suggesting he phone Joe's mobile to rearrange.

Her husband didn't come home for lunch either.

Odd, Mr Lucey not turning up. Cheryl tore off a length of cling-film to wrap the chops Irene had cooked for Joe. He's usually Mr Reliable.

You wouldn't say that if you'd been married to him for as long as I have. Irene took her fleece from the back of her chair. Mr Do-As-He-Likes is what I'd call him. If he does bother to drop by, tell him I'll be in the greenhouse.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Beyond the orchard, the mildewed panes of the potting-shed converted icy sunshine into moist warmth. The air was saturated with the must of compost, spiced with the carbolic scent of over-wintering geraniums and their cuttings. Irene dabbed at the rows of embryonic pelargoniums, checking their health through her fingertips. She was pleased with them: their stems were sturdy, their little scallop leaves thick and firm.

She began checking through last year's seed packets. Nothing could go outside until the frost was over but she should start some seed-trays now.  She pulled out a grimy washing-up bowl that she used for mixing composts.

Sifting the cool soil through her fingers, she experienced a sudden pang of anxiety about Joe. She recognised she'd felt resentful because she'd overheard him berating Gregory. For a man of his age he still worked long hours, so it was natural for him to be impatient with a generation that took life easier.

It seemed a good while since she'd spoken to her husband, though it was only last night. She tried to remember their conversation but she hadn't really been paying attention: something about a parish council meeting… oh, and singing Martha's praises again. Maybe that's why she'd switched off. She clicked her tongue, annoyed with herself. Tomorrow, she'd go into town and look out a few brushed cotton shirts and a sweater. With this cold snap, he could do with more warm layers. And, as he'd missed lunch, she'd cook something special for supper, maybe a prawn curry. She could picture herself and Joe enjoying a fragrant korma with a bottle of Riesling.

While she filled the watering can from the tap by the greenhouse door, she realized that the gloom inside the potting-shed was also gathering in the garden. She quickly watered the seed-trays then scraped the door shut and headed back down the path to the dark-windowed house.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Cheryl had left the kitchen orderly. Irene washed her hands, earth-stained suds spattering the gleaming sink. Trailing a tea towel, she went into the scullery to one of the two freezers and dug out a pack of prawns. She was peeling onions when she heard the backdoor open. It would be either Gregory or Joe. She turned her head towards the kitchen door and for a split second could not make sense of the sight of Bill Pane, her nearest neighbour, in his shirt sleeves. His face was contorted and he was shouting at her.

Oh, dear god, Irene. I think he's gone. I saw the Nissan out there this morning but I... I never dreamt…. He had a wide-eyed, agonised look.

In the moment it took Irene to reach him, possibilities went through her mind. Something must have happened to Bill's son who worked in the family's plumbing business, but why had he come to her?"

Bill grabbed her hands and began pumping them up and down.

Blankets. He needs blankets. His grip was crushing her fingers.

Irene looked past Bill and saw Gregory standing in the doorway. He stepped inside.

What is it? Gregory's tone snapped Bill to his senses.

It's Joe. He's in the brook meadow. Bill's voice began to break, It doesn't look good. I've called an ambulance. I left him my jacket but we need to get him warm. He'll have…, Bill searched for the word, …hypothermia.

A disembodied calm fell over Irene. She sped upstairs to strip the duvet off her bed, gathering in a pillow as well, compressing them against her body to clear the doors on her way down. Gregory had taken the keys from the hook in the kitchen for Joe's Honda. He and Bill climbed into the front while Irene pushed the bedding beside her onto the back seat. The clock on the dashboard showed 17:17.

It was only three or four hundred yards to the brook meadow, down the farm drive and a little way along the lane. It was completely dark now, the road ahead a bleached ribbon in the headlights. Irene felt herself in a dream. Her right hand rhythmically squeezed the duvet, crushing the fine spikiness of feathers inside.

When she climbed out of the car, the bundle of bedding unrolled and dragged on the verge. She reeled it in, brushing grains of frost against her skin as she followed the men's silhouettes to the gate and heard them unbolt it and swing it open. Her eyes were adjusting, finding the ghostly paintwork of Joe's pick-up. Underfoot the field was rutted, hard to navigate in her slip-on shoes.

The two men in front parted, lowering themselves to their knees, making room for Irene by the shape on the ground.

I'm so sorry, Irene, Bill's voice trailed to a whisper, I think he's left us.

Irene felt fury spark around her heart. What did Bill know about anything? She ran her hands over Joe's still form, mapping how he was lying. Gently, she lifted his head, sliding the pillow beneath. He was floppy, not stiff. She tucked the duvet around him and pressed her cheek against his icy face, wishing her body-heat into his blood. 

Come away, Mum, don't upset yourself. You can't do anything. The ambulance will be here soon.

It didn't seem important to explain to her son that she wasn't 'upset'. Her mind was all on Joe. She felt for her husband's hands and brought them together so she could cradle them in her own, stretching her fingers over his.

She gasped as Gregory's arms tugged around her waist. He was trying to pull her away.

Get off me!

There was enough savagery in her voice for him to let go. She leaned herself over Joe, wrapping as much of him as she could into herself. As she laid her head on his chest, she felt a laboured intake of breath, slow and dragging, like a heavy stone across paving.

You're alright. There, you're alright, she crooned. I knew you were alright, Joe. Oh, Joe, my sweetheart, you're alright.

From beyond the dark meadow and the little maze of lanes around the farm rose a faint keening from an approaching ambulance. 

Chapter 2

Friday, 8 February

AT 2.25 AM GREGORY LUCEY turned the key in his front door in the suburb of Pennington, just two miles from Wroxton General Infirmary.

Light stretched down the stairwell to the hall and Gregory's heart lifted at hearing Angela's voice, fully awake, calling him to her.

She was in her clingy black pyjamas, sitting in a nest of bedclothes, surrounded by magazines. Her eyes were big and serious, like a tired child's.

Is he alright? Has he come round?

Gregory shook his head. He unzipped his jacket, hung it over the end of the bed. He felt close to tears. There was hoarseness in his voice. I didn't want to phone you, Angie. Not while you were on your own. He didn't make it.

Angela held out her arms.

It was awful, he told her, giving way to his feelings while she stroked his hair. They… they did everything to save him. Gregory shut his eyes to hide the ugliness of what he knew. Man to man, away from his mother and sisters, the consultant had explained the intrusive means by which they'd attempted to restore heat to his father's body. Gregory cleared his throat, opened his eyes. I'm glad you weren't there. When they switched off the life support they said it would be over in minutes, but.... Again, he tried to blink away the image of the ICU bed, his father's blind, enfeebled struggle against death. Angie, promise me you won't let me die in hospital.

The hair caressing paused.

I'd better phone Mum and Dad, she said. They're waiting up for news.

While his wife was talking, Gregory began to undress. He pulled his sweater over his head thinking he could sleep forever. The Infirmary had been exhausting, a warren of harsh lighting and clatter. His sisters had arrived at intervals, in shock, needing the story of their father's injuries. The prognosis had deteriorated with each repetition.

Was it a head injury? Dad's asked. Angela held the phone to her body, her palm against the mouthpiece.

Just say 'organ failure'. Gregory shook his head to show that he didn't want to talk.

When Angela replaced the handset, Gregory flopped against the pillows on his side of the bed.

Can we have the light off? he asked, I'm shattered.

The bedside lamp clicked off, darkness soothing the ache behind his eyes.

There'll be a lot for you to do, Angela murmured.

I know. I've set the alarm. I'll get over to the farm early.

Dad asked if there was anything he could help with.

Don't think so, not yet. Gregory spooned himself around Angela as she turned away. Her back felt tense. He kissed her shoulder, becoming aroused despite his exhaustion.

Mum asked if we'll be putting this place up for sale.

He spread more light kisses over her shoulder blade.

She rolled over to face him, her fingertips tracing the outline of his mouth, her voice almost a whisper, I know you must feel really sad, Greg, but… well, your Dad never made life easy for you.

Gregory slid his hand to her nape, gathering her hair loosely, moving closer to kiss her lips.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

When he arrived at the farm just after 7.00 am, Gregory parked beside his twin sisters' people carrier at the back of the farmhouse. Clare and Dinah had driven from London to the hospital and he supposed they'd be staying a few days. Their work as musicians was hardly nine-to-five.

No one seemed to be up, so he let himself into the scullery quietly, checking the alarm. It hadn't been set. His mother probably didn't know how to work it.

He tried the handle to his father's office before remembering he'd locked up before driving to the hospital. He felt for the key in his Barbour pocket. As he stepped into what originally had been a dairy storeroom, he was met by the grainy scent of his father's work jackets hanging on the back of the door. Gregory usually only had occasion to stand at the threshold, this room being so narrow. His father would twist in his tattered leatherette chair, to answer Gregory's queries, or give him news about the time of a delivery. Sitting in his father's place in front of the ancient sit-up-and-beg electric typewriter, Gregory wondered at how antiquated and worn everything was, how poor the light. It was like some tableau in a living museum.

Gregory began sifting through the contents of the dented filing cabinet and, except for phoning an agency to arrange for temporary work cover, this took all his attention.

From time to time he was interrupted by the phone and, at just after ten, by Clare, who was allowed the status of 'older twin'. She was wearing jeans and a sludge green jumper with an odd droopy collar. Gregory couldn't understand why women would choose to wear weird stuff like that. Her face was without make-up, the skin wan from indoor living. She'd opened the office door without knocking.

What are you doing? she asked.

Sorting stuff. I've got to make a list of everyone to notify.

Do you want a coffee?

Please. Is Mum up?

She wants to stay upstairs. Clare cocked her head to one side. I think you should go and see her.

Gregory felt himself bridle at her tone: big sister ordering baby brother. Sure. Give me five minutes, he said. He let ten go by then locked both office doors before crossing to the kitchen.

Clare was pouring coffee from a cafêtière. He loaded a cup for himself and his mother onto a tray and carried it to her bedroom. She sat hunched on the edge of the bed, her face ravaged with crying. Gregory lowered himself next to her, breathing in the faint sourness of her unshowered skin.

I've made us some coffee. He handed her a cup and she took it with carefully steadied hands. Taking a sip, she wrinkled her nose.

It's got sugar.

Clare thought you needed it.

Irene shook her head. I don't know what I'm going to do, Gregory. I just can't believe it.

No. Gregory felt around for something comforting to say, something to prevent more tears. There have been lots of calls to see how you are. The Pritchards rang and Hamish Marlow—he'd heard from someone. Everyone's thinking about you.

Hamish Marlow?

Mm, he rang from the House of Commons. Gregory paused to allow the honour of a call from the House of Commons its due.

I'm sorting all the paperwork, he said. As a company director, there may be forms for you to sign. I need you to be strong, if you can, Mum. He touched her back lightly. There'll be the funeral arrangements, as well, soon.

She turned her face to look up into his. Little red veins branched from her tear ducts into the whites of he eyes. Her chest began to shudder.

Please, don't cry, Mum.

He watched her bite her lower lip and roll her fingers into loose fists.

I'll go and run a bath. I'll get dressed, she said.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

At lunchtime, Gregory asked for a sandwich to eat as he worked. His mother had ventured downstairs but seemed shut inside herself, hardly noticing the twins. He said he would talk to her before he left.

Back at his father's desk, he locked the door from the inside. He didn't want his sisters barging in. He pressed the green 'On' button of the old typewriter. It hummed like a trapped insect. Gregory reached for his father's radio to blank its buzz. Some bore was bemoaning the problem of debt among the jobless. Gregory retuned to the local commercial station and the little office cheered up to chart hits and banter. 

Chapter 3

Monday, 11 February - Thursday, 14 February

FOR THE FIRST FEW DAYS after Joe's death, it took Irene all her courage to leave her bedroom and put herself within touching distance of her family and the constant visitors.

Returning from hospital as Joe's widow dredged memories of first meeting her parents-in-law at the farm. Though Joe's mother was invariably civil, there had been doubt in the gaze that met Irene's, a mistrust of the northern girl with the Lancashire accent who'd lured Joe's heart away from local lasses. As if being judged down the years, Irene was visited by a monstrous sense of herself as an outsider, usurping her husband's place. At night, she felt pressed to her bed by a weight of loneliness.

In those first days, when she forced herself downstairs, everyone spoke sympathetically, reaching towards her with gentle hands but she instinctively retreated from their kindness. She could hardly string words together and cried constantly without control. The tears were for herself and this added to her burden of shame.

Perhaps because they moved in the charged world of classical music, Dinah and Clare seemed unfazed by her state. They patted her, brought fresh cups of tea to replace those she'd forgotten to drink and dealt with visitors with unselfconscious aplomb, unaware that their slouchy clothes and wayward hairdos were rare sightings in Triverton. Gregory found her grief more difficult, leaving the room when she broke down, his face pained.

On Monday evening, Suzanne Pritchard, Gregory's mother-in-law, called by. Dinah answered the front bell and brought the visitor to the kitchen.

Poor Irene, Suzanne said, holding out her arms, though not advancing. Greg's told us you're finding it very hard. She was dressed in black, a fitted suit. The hands that reached towards Irene were encased in small leather gloves, tight at the wrist, flaring to fur-trimmed edgings. Irene became aware of how scruffy she must look in her old jumper and baggy moleskin trousers.

Behind Suzanne's back, Dinah, the younger twin, cocked an eyebrow, thumbing towards the door. The most assertive of her daughters, Dinah would have no qualms about telling Suzanne this wasn't a convenient time.

Irene gave a tiny shake of her head. Since Gregory's marriage to Angela, the Pritchards were family and should be welcomed as such. What will you have to drink, Suzanne? she asked.

Water would be lovely.

"Give me your coat, Suzanne. You two go to