––––––––
They ate roast chicken for lunch. Jenkins was around, so Pitt had invited him, but he had excused himself. And so there were three of them, in a silence that was by degree as intolerable as the silence that Pitt shared with Ju was beautiful.
Daisy ate quietly, her lips forever pursed in concentrated ill-humour, unhappy in a way that was far removed from Ju’s melancholy. Mrs Cromwell ate with false teeth, her dentures smacking; a horrible sound, although one that Pitt was able to ignore. Every sound that escaped her lips, however, cut through Daisy. A scythe through her humour, darkening her mood and her resentment.
Ju was standing at her usual position, putting the finishing touches to a delicate summer strawberry dessert. Pitt had not looked at her, although he had noticed that Daisy cast constant glances in Ju’s direction.
Pitt had sat at the kitchen table until 7.33, at which point he had gone for a shower. He had not slept in twenty-seven hours, but did not feel tired. He could rest when he had done what was required of him, when he had released Ju from, at least, part of what so crushed her spirit.
‘Mum called the police,’ said Daisy suddenly. She had finished her plate, and was in the act of helping herself to another roast potato and a few carrots. Some gravy. ‘And the immigration people. What are they called again?’ she asked Mrs Cromwell, her innocence of tone belying the nerves that coursed through her for this open challenge to her mother.
‘United Kingdom Borders Agency,’ said Mrs Cromwell darkly. She looked at Pitt as she spoke.
Pitt barely glanced at her, did not betray the immediate turmoil in his stomach, nor the instant anger he felt at her interference. He made some slight facial gesture at Daisy, which she knew was meant to indicate that she ought to keep talking.
‘Mum was wondering what she did on Saturday nights, weren’t you, Mum?’
Mrs Cromwell kept a malicious silence, chicken sucked through her teeth.
‘Apparently quite a lot of these, you know, illegal immigrants, are involved in the sex trade. Mum thinks that’s what she does.’
She looked at her mum, a strange glance, seeking affirmation, yet filled with loathing. Mrs Cromwell, annoyed at Daisy for giving Pitt due warning before the police had arrived, said nothing.
‘You know for certain that Yuan Ju is an illegal immigrant?’ said Pitt.
He did not glance at Ju when he spoke, or so much as acknowledge that Mrs Cromwell was sitting at the table. Kept his eyes on Daisy.
‘Well, I hired her,’ snapped Daisy in response.
‘From whom?’
It was rare for Pitt to question Daisy on any matter – one had to talk to question – but she did not like it at all. Mrs Cromwell was outraged on her daughter’s behalf; angry at her daughter, and angry in her daughter’s defence.
‘There was an advert on the notice board down at the supermarket. Staff available for hire, that was all.’
‘To whom did you speak?’ asked Pitt.
Daisy was flustered, a piece of potato on the corner of her lips. She could feel Mrs Cromwell’s gaze burrowing through her. Suddenly, she felt the claustrophobia of their situation, the three antagonists trapped forever in the bright summer kitchen.
‘A woman,’ said Daisy. ‘I never got her name.’
‘Chinese?’
‘Oh, you’re full of talk now. I try to get you to talk about the vineyard and there’s nothing. Not a word. All of a sudden you can’t shut up about the cook. Where on earth did that come from?’
Mrs Cromwell snorted, and directed a glance containing all the maliciousness her eighty-two years could muster in Pitt’s direction. Daisy noticed the look, and followed her mum’s gaze.
‘What’s that all about?’ she asked.
‘Was the woman you spoke to Chinese?’ said Pitt.
Daisy scoffed and shook her head.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I see I’m going to get as much from you as usual. No, she wasn’t. She was Bristol probably.’
Pitt held her gaze for a short while, then dropped his eyes. Nearly finished his dinner. He felt like walking out, turning his back and not returning to the kitchen for the rest of the day, but he also knew that Ju had spent the last twenty minutes preparing dessert. At least someone should appreciate it.
He put the last of the chicken into his mouth and placed his knife and fork neatly onto the middle of his plate. He stared at the centre of the table, seemingly having switched off. But he knew he now had something else to think about. Something else to add to the list.
The birds were dying, DEFRA were coming, the bank were closing in, Ju was an unwilling victim of the sex trade, and now Mrs Cromwell had done her best to sabotage Ju’s entire life in the country. Or maybe the sabotage was aimed at Pitt.
A warm breeze came into the kitchen from the open window by the sink, the smell of summer in the air.