––––––––
Pitt lay in the light of morning, listening to the silence. He had woken with his back turned to Daisy and had not moved. Lying still, eyes open. Daisy was restless and he wondered if she was awake. Did not dare move in case she spoke to him.
He had woken with his spirits already flat. It might have been because of Hardyman, but there had been three mornings since the funeral and this was the first where he’d awoken to the dreadful, oppressive weight of depression.
The thought of Daisy speaking to him so early filled him with dread, and he lay perfectly still and closed his eyes, listening to the morning, hoping that he would hear the sound of birds.
*
Muesli. He ate slowly. Daisy seemed to be in a rush. Her mother had not appeared at all this morning, not even to make toast and get in the way of Yuan Ju. Ju glided around the kitchen, her eyes meeting those of neither Daisy nor Pitt, nor any of the others who came and went; Jenkins and Blain, the other hands who sometimes changed with the weather.
Since Hardyman’s death, Ju and Pitt had been bonded in melancholy. Daisy had not seemed to notice. Daisy did not care about Hardyman’s death. It did not directly affect her, and therefore was of no consequence. She herself had not died. No one from whom she expected anything had died. Hardyman’s death did not intrude on her world, and so, after the fashion of the truly self-obsessed, it was of no interest to her.
Pitt was hunched over his breakfast bowl, trying to focus on what needed doing that day. Wondering how long he could delay addressing the accountancy issue. Ignoring the doubt at the back of his mind that there was a reason he’d woken in such a terrible, depressive mood. The only comfort of the day was the presence of Ju, ever serene, ever beautiful.
Her beauty was something that had occurred to him only after a few weeks, but which he now could not ignore.
When Daisy was in the room, he would not look at Ju, at least not without looking at Daisy beforehand. She would read his thoughts; see right through him.
He glanced up. Daisy had her back turned, fiddling in a drawer, searching for something, muttering, cursing.
Pitt looked at Ju. She was side on to him, washing down the doors on the cupboards beneath the work surface. Pitt had never seen anyone wash those cabinets before, not unless something had been actively spilled on them. Ju worked with concentration, cleaning in the way in which she did everything; measured and thorough. As usual, she had her hair tied back, and, as usual, a couple of strands had fallen loose, and she continually swept them back, away from her face.
She never glanced in his direction, yet he knew that she was aware of him looking. Languid movements under his interested eye, and she seemed to slow down even more. She enjoyed him looking and she was returning the look, even though she did not turn her head.
They were becoming more and more attached to one another, had more understanding of one another, every time they shared time in the kitchen; regardless of whether or not they were alone. And yet, still he did not understand the root of her sorrow, beyond homesickness and a general discomfort of a foreign land. Still, he did not understand what took her every Saturday evening.
He turned at a noise at the door. Mrs Cromwell was there, a small suitcase at her feet, pulling on her coat. She was staring at Pitt, had been watching him as he watched Ju. Mrs Cromwell’s face was knowing, understanding. Loathing.
Pitt, expressionless, turned back to his cereal. He lifted the coffee mug to his face. Daisy glanced at her mother, as she closed the drawer in which she’d been searching for an age.
‘I’m not ready yet,’ she said. Every word between them was delivered antagonistically.
‘We need to go,’ said Mrs Cromwell crisply. She was still looking at Pitt, although she was thinking about Yuan Ju.
Pitt glanced at Daisy as she bustled out of the room. Mrs Cromwell was going to stay with her sister for a night or two. He wasn’t sure how long. Had forgotten about it. Daisy would be out until the afternoon. The run down to Devon and back; stop for lunch and bitter gossip. The elder sister’s complaints about the neighbours and the warden of the sheltered housing and the youths that congregated in the park across the wall, and how you could never see their faces, and how you could hear their foul language and how Mrs Donahay said that some evenings she could recognise the smell of dope in the air and how the widow Baird claimed to hear the sounds of sex practically every weekend. In the morning, the grass would be covered with beer cans, even though they weren’t allowed to drink alcohol in the park, but the police never seemed to care.
*
They left half an hour later, by which time Pitt was already at the far end of the vineyard, taking his daily walk through the vines; his daily search for signs of trouble on the leaves and in the fruit; his daily check on the canopy that would be reported back to the men with relevant instructions. These days, he also walked in search of bird song, but none came.
Mrs Cromwell had not moved from her position at the door until Daisy was ready. She had watched Pitt until he’d finished his breakfast and had left the room, well aware that he did not wilt at all under the intimidating fury of her stare; and once he was gone, she had stood in impotent anger watching Yuan Ju, and her deliberate movements around the kitchen.
She would not remain impotent for long. Daisy might have been blind to what was going on; Daisy might have been bloody-minded about sticking with the woman she had been so foolish to employ, but Mrs Cromwell at least had the wit and intelligence about her to see everything; and to be in a position to do something about it.
Yuan Ju would be leaving soon.
‘There’s a call for you.’
Pitt looked up. He was bent low, pruning leaves where he felt that the developing fruit was not receiving enough sunlight; a not untypical act of excessive vine micro-management. Had the vines had a wish, it would have been that Pitt could leave them alone.
Jenkins was holding a mobile towards Pitt, who did not immediately rise. When his man came searching for him out in the vines, it was never good.
‘The bank,’ said Jenkins.
Pitt’s never changing face. He stood and took the phone, and spoke roughly at it.