ANNIE SAT ALONE in the living room at Everwell turning down the hems on Elizabeth’s school pinafores. Anxiety had settled on her shoulders; it was heavy, wrapped around her like a shawl. The lamp on the table beside her cast an oval light. She was nervous as a kitten, jumping at the spit of wood-sap in the logs in the fireplace, the wind rattling the windows in their frames and the whispers in the shadows of the old house. The water was settling in the pipes, making them creak and tick; the trees outside were bowing and blowing, making moon-shadows through the windows. She listened out for William, she wanted to know what he knew, what had happened today at the police station, why her father had still not been released.
When she heard the creak of the back door, she laid her sewing down on the arm of the chair, crossed the hall and pushed open the kitchen door. The room was in darkness, but she could see her husband silhouetted against the window behind. The palms of William’s hands were flat on the kitchen table. His shoulders were hunched, his head hanging low. Beyond, through the window, Annie saw a pair of headlights jolting down the farm track, the beams bumping up and down, distancing themselves, heading for the road. One of the lights was slightly out of kilter.
‘William?’ She took a step forward. There was something about his posture, a sadness that alarmed her. ‘What’s going on? Why didn’t you put the light on?’
He stood up. She could not see his face.
‘I thought you’d be asleep by now,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘Why are you so late?’
‘There were things to sort out.’
Annie watched the lights reach the junction of the track and the lane and, instead of turning left towards the town, the vehicle turned right up towards the moor. Perhaps a cow, or more likely a calf, had died and Jim was towing it away in the trailer to dispose of it somewhere remote.
‘Would you like something to eat?’ she asked. ‘I saved you some dinner.’ She gestured towards the covered plate of food on the counter. ‘It’s not much, only a bit of ham and some potatoes. I could warm it up.’
‘No, I’m all right, thank you,’ said William.
She could tell that he wanted to be alone. He would like to go into his study, shut the door and put some operatic music on the record player. He would like to drink a glass of whisky, sit back in his chair, close his eyes and listen to the music until it had cleared his mind of whatever it was that was troubling him. It was very late.
‘Did you find out about Dad?’ she asked.
‘I’m terribly tired. Can we talk in the morning?’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Your father’s fine. He should come up before the magistrates tomorrow.’
‘Thank you, William.’ She stepped back, put her hand on the door handle. ‘Goodnight then.’
She washed, undressed and lay in bed. William’s music wound up the stairs; she recognised Sibelius, though not the piece – it was mournful music. Every so often, she heard the chink of the stopper being replaced in the whisky decanter. She could not sleep. She wondered if she would ever sleep again. She heard the grandmother clock in the hall chime the quarters up to two o’clock, and then the double ring of the hour. Some time after this, the farm dogs set to barking. A fox had trotted across the yard maybe, or else Jim had returned from wherever he had been. She pulled the quilt up to her chin, moved down into the old bed, her feet seeking the warmer, softer patches of sheet and blanket.
She was hovering around the edge of a dream, all lost in darkness and Johnnie’s accident and the scenes from the picket line and the dead woman’s face and her own guilt swirling around her mind like water, when William came into the bedroom. He left the door ajar, and undressed by the light spilling in from the landing. There was little point in Annie pretending to be asleep. She knew he knew she was watching.
William hung his trousers carefully on a hanger that he replaced in the wardrobe. He put on his pyjamas, picked up the soiled clothes and took them into the bathroom to put in the laundry basket. Annie heard the water gurgling down the drain as he washed his face and brushed his teeth.
When he got into bed, smelling of carbolic soap, she turned towards him. She reached out her hand for his, but he did not take it. He lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling.
‘William?’ she whispered. He did not answer. She turned away from him again, curled herself into a comma, pressed her cheek into the pillow and longed for the morning.