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The reporters from the tabloids had gone. They’d waited a short while to see if one of the birds would fall dramatically from the trees, however each minute that they’d stayed only seemed to bring a new kind of birdsong into the copse at the side or the trees around the driveway. Finally, one of them had taken Jenkins aside, looking for a bit of inside gossip, and Jenkins had bluntly told him that it was all as it appeared. The birds had gone or had died, and now they were back. Whatever strange set of circumstances had kept them away was now at an end. The birds, said Jenkins with a wry smile, were back for good, and they weren’t all going to die.
The tabloids had left shortly afterwards.
The BBC was still there. They had nowhere else to go, so they had gone with Blain and the two government scientists, walking up and down the vines, taking a look at the overall setup of the vineyard; the BBC hoping that, if they waited around long enough, something would happen.
When it did happen, they were on the other side of the vineyard and missed it.
*
Horsfield was outraged, spitting. She had almost gone with the others out into the vines, but could not stand to listen to the growing cacophony of birdsong. Picking up on her anger and frustration, Jenkins had invited her into the kitchen. He had found it funny at first, had enjoyed the moment; now, he wished that the birds had come sooner, that Horsfield could have been alerted by telephone, and had come to the vineyard knowing what she was going to find. He did not enjoy her presence in her moment of disappointment.
She was sitting at the table with Jenkins, her phone attached to her ear, although she hadn’t yet spoken to anyone; trying to reach her boss, whom she suspected was avoiding her. Jenkins was trying not to look at her, although he was strangely fascinated. Daisy was making tea, keeping busy; wondering what was going on with Pitt, and why he wasn’t there when the government was.
Mrs Cromwell was in the corner, waiting for her moment.
Horsfield snapped the phone off and placed it noisily onto the table. ‘This is just a piece of work,’ she said.
Jenkins had nothing to say. He glanced at her, but she wasn’t looking at him, wasn’t speaking to him.
Daisy placed a teapot and cups on the table. She never made coffee, and when people asked for it, she just relied on their feeling of awkwardness preventing them from pointing out that they hadn’t been given what they’d asked for.
Jenkins smiled to himself, knowing that Horsfield had never been going to get the coffee, lots of milk, lots of sugar that she’d requested.
Horsfield looked at the tray, her mouth opened, but she didn’t say anything.
‘Do you want a cup, Mum?’ said Daisy.
Jenkins wondered if they’d be offered a biscuit of some description, but was fairly confident that they wouldn’t. Horsfield felt detached from her reality. In her self-absorption, she was not dissimilar to Pitt, although she wished to impose herself on others, while Pitt retreated from them. However, while in that part of their characters they were completely opposed, they were alike in their dislike and disinterest in small talk.
If Pitt was making himself a drink in a room he shared with other people, he would either make one for the others or he wouldn’t, having made a judgement on whether or not he thought they might want one. He would never ask or offer. Anything to avoid conversation, even when it was warranted.
Horsfield’s contempt of unnecessary human conversation would lead her to be equally oblivious to what other people might want. In her case, however, the chances were very small that she would ever do something for anyone else, no matter how trivial.
Daisy placed the cup of tea with no sugar in front of Horsfield, who wondered whether or not she had to drink it in order to be polite.
‘Mum?’ said Daisy, her voice with more of an edge. Mrs Cromwell was distracted or ignoring her, so Daisy tutted loudly and poured her a cup anyway.
‘It’s here if you want it,’ she muttered.
She pushed a cup over the table to Jenkins who nodded, wondering what on earth he’d been thinking when inviting Horsfield into the house. Could he have thought of three women with whom he’d rather not be trapped in a kitchen?
‘Mrs Pitt, have you any idea where I might find your husband?’
Daisy snorted. Horsfield felt vaguely repulsed that she had to talk to the woman.
‘Why would I know?’ said Daisy.
Horsfield tapped a long nail against the side of the mug of tea.
‘You’re more likely to know than I am,’ she replied sharply.
‘Well, I don’t.’
The women exchanged an unpleasant glance. Jenkins wondered what it would be like if they started fighting; it might at least snap the tension.
‘And I don’t suppose you have any idea what was killing the birds?’
Another heavy breath through Daisy’s nose.
‘I didn’t even know it was happening until last week.’
‘How can you miss the birds?’
Daisy sat down, a look on her face suggesting she was offended by the thought that someone else might not have.
Horsfield glanced at Jenkins, who was staring at the floor, cup of tea at his lips, a tune going round in his head. The ground will swallow me up and I will be free...
‘This is just...’ said Horsfield, and she let the sentence drift away. ‘Your husband has made me look very foolish,’ she added.
Daisy was not about to defend him. She took a noisy slurp of tea, the sound cutting Horsfield in half. She would not be staying long. She glanced out of the window. They could hear the sound of birdsong, and she was in the process of deciding that it would be less annoying to listen to that than it would be to sit with the woman who did not make coffee, and who seemed to be offended by the notion that she might have some idea of her husband’s movements.
‘It wasn’t him who invited the media,’ said Jenkins, when Daisy was not forthcoming in defence of Pitt.
‘No one invites the media,’ said Horsfield strangely.
‘It’s something to do with her.’
The voice had come from the corner of the room, although it seemed to have come from much further away. They all looked over at Mrs Cromwell, who was sitting staring into the empty fireplace.
Daisy rolled her eyes at her mother’s intervention, thinking that she was just a crazy old fool. Jenkins gave Mrs Cromwell no more than a glance, but he knew to whom she was referring.
Horsfield turned her head to take in the old woman, growing more interested in her, partly because Mrs Cromwell herself had not turned to engage the table.
‘Who?’ said Horsfield.
‘The one I called you about a few days ago,’ said Mrs Cromwell.
‘The Chinese girl?’
‘Yes.’
Horsfield glanced back at Daisy, who was regarding her mother with a peculiar, confused contempt. Jenkins felt himself sliding into an uncomfortable pit.
‘Where is she? She was here last week.’
‘She’s gone,’ said Daisy. ‘Mum called the police, but she was gone by the time they got here. Of course, they took their time coming. She had time to get back to China, they took so long arriving.’
Horsfield looked curiously at Daisy, and then back to Mrs Cromwell.
‘I don’t understand what you think she has to do with the birds.’
‘She didn’t go back to China,’ said Mrs Cromwell.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Horsfield.
‘How would you know?’ barked Daisy.
Mrs Cromwell didn’t know, but she had made a reasonable guess, and it did not matter whether or not she was found to have guessed right. If she had, then the lovers were discovered and she would have her triumph. If she wasn’t, then she would just be a crazy old woman to whom people ought not to listen.
‘I passed along the tip-off to some colleagues in UK Borders,’ said Horsfield. ‘They’re rather busy. We all are.’
‘She arrived just before the birds started disappearing,’ said Mrs Cromwell. ‘And now she’s gone, and the birds are back.’
She imparted the words like a wise old crone, as if she knew more than everyone else, as if they should all bow down to her wisdom.
‘Not that she’s gone far,’ she added.
Once more Horsfield looked at Daisy and then at Jenkins; one of whom was looking confused, and one of whom was looking as if he’d much, much rather be elsewhere.