Julia sleeps fitfully and wakes early. She hates these dark mid-winter mornings. She longs for the early summer sunrises when she can snatch a cup of coffee and then take Bertie out to walk in the lane; to listen for the cuckoo and hear the lambs calling. She rolls over to peer at the bedside clock – nearly ten to seven – and is relieved that it’s not much earlier. After Bob died, she woke regularly at twenty past three every morning for nearly a year and then, quite suddenly, her sleep pattern changed again, returning to her normal routine of waking between six and seven. Nobody could explain the phenomenon but those long wakeful hours before sunrise, missing him, longing for him, had been devastating.
She lies for a moment, thinking how different these processes of mourning are. Back then she mourned for Bob in all those small daily routines and intimacies that couples share. This time her grief takes a different form. She misses the randomness: the unexpected text, the spontaneous meeting, the secret knowledge that at any moment the day will be brightened by the connection between her and Martin. It gave colour and excitement to her life.
Now she must learn to deal with her bereavement alone. No family or friends, this time, to comfort her, to help her through it. She must continue to keep their secret and manage on her own.
Quickly, so as to prevent that familiar slide into misery, Julia pushes back the duvet, sits on the edge of the bed, and reaches for her dressing gown, flung across the old wicker chair. She huddles into its softness, folding it around her, tying the belt. Mentally she begins to plan her day, refusing to allow herself to become depressed. After Bob died, the boys provided her with a framework. Their own commitments – school, friends, clubs – filled her waking time with activity. This time she must concentrate on work: this will be her solace.
But first comes Christmas. The boys will be home, expecting the usual routines, and she must begin to get organized, to make lists, finish writing Christmas cards, fill the freezer. Julia stands up, pushes her feet into sheepskin slippers and goes to the window. It’s still dark outside but the sky is clear and there is no wind. It will be a fine day. She goes out on to the landing and down the stairs, to let Bertie out, and to make coffee.
Later that morning, Angus and Kate are walking the dogs on Whitchurch Common. He saw her coming out of Crebers and suddenly thought how nice it would be to be up on the moor in this bright December sunshine with Blossom and Dearie, and even nicer with Kate and Flossie, too. She agreed at once, told him that she’d take her shopping back to Chapel Street, pick up Flossie and meet him up on the Common. Angus hurried back to get the dogs and they arrived within minutes of each other, the dogs delighted to be together, bounding around, uttering yelps of excitement, whilst he and Kate pulled on jackets and hunted for leads.
‘Not that we really need them,’ says Kate, hanging Flossie’s lead around her neck outside her coat collar, ‘but you never know.’
They walk together over the close-grazed turf, discussing families, Christmas and Angus’s party.
‘I just want you to know,’ Angus says, ‘that I’m very upset that you’ve stood me up on Christmas Eve. What’s Bruno got that I haven’t, I’d like to know?’
Although he’s met Bruno and likes him, he’s rather surprised himself to find that this is true. In these last few months, whilst she’s spent more time in Tavistock than usual, he’s become increasingly fond of Kate and he’s disappointed that she won’t be there at his party with all their friends.
Kate laughs, tucking her arm in his. ‘I can’t just abandon poor old Bruno and my friends at St Meriadoc,’ she says cheerfully. ‘You can’t expect me to do that. I’m coming back for the Boxing Day thrash down on the Tamar, though. Is that any good?’
He makes a face, pretends dissatisfaction, but inside he’s pleased to think that she’ll be back so soon and, once Tom and Cass are installed in Chapel Street, she might be a more permanent visitor with him in Whitchurch.
‘How about New Year’s Eve?’ he asks hopefully. ‘You could stay on after Boxing Day. I might give another party.’
‘What a fellow you are,’ says Kate admiringly. ‘Well, I might have to tell Bruno he’ll be spending New Year alone.’
Angus chuckles. ‘I hope you know what you’re taking on,’ he says, ‘keeping us both happy.’
‘Well, you know what Cass says,’ answers Kate. ‘If there’s anything better than one man, it’s two men. Ad infinitum.’
‘Sounds like Cass,’ agrees Angus.
He feels lucky in his friendship with these two women, who make him laugh and keep him young in spirit.
‘Being old is hell,’ he says unexpectedly. ‘I was having lunch in a pub recently with an old colleague, and there he was chomping away on a steak and all I could think was that the lucky devil must still have all his own teeth. I mean, sad or what?’
Kate bursts out laughing and hugs his arm tighter.
‘If I’d paid more attention at school,’ she says, ‘I’d quote that thing: “To me, old friend, you never can be old.”’ She shakes her head. ‘That doesn’t sound right. I can’t remember it. Is it Shakespeare?’
‘It’s one of his sonnets,’ says Angus. He hesitates and then he says softly:
To me, fair friend, you never can be old;
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still …
He pauses, feeling rather a fool, but Kate looks up at him admiringly.
‘Wow,’ she says. ‘Get you. I’m impressed.’
Angus shrugs modestly. ‘Just trying to keep up with Bruno. How many books has he had published now?’
Kate laughs. ‘This is not a contest.’
He laughs with her, pauses and strikes a pose, continuing the sonnet:
… Three winters cold Have from the forest shook …
‘OK, now you’re showing off,’ says Kate. ‘You’re frightening the dogs.’
‘And I haven’t apologized for pre-empting you with Plum about the cottage,’ he says, tucking her arm back in his own. ‘I hope that wasn’t embarrassing for you.’
‘It actually worked out very well,’ says Kate thoughtfully.
Glancing down at her, he sees that she’s musing on it, as if she’s remembering the talk with Plum.
‘Well, I’m grateful,’ he says, ‘for all sorts of reasons. And Plum seems much happier, too. She went back to London in very good spirits. I think you did her good.’
‘Great,’ says Kate lightly. ‘In that case you can buy me lunch. Why don’t we drive over to the Warren Inn?’
‘Love to,’ he says.
They call the dogs and turn back, and he feels content. Life is good.