THE EVENING SUN was warm on the pink-washed walls of the Suffolk farmhouse in which William stood chatting with Maggie, his hostess and the wife of his childhood friend, Geoffrey.
“Where’s Geoff?” he asked as Maggie washed her hands in the large Belfast sink.
“Looking at the pigs, I think,” she said. “He usually checks up on them at this time of the evening. Our pig-keeper, Wally, goes off for his tea round about now, so Geoff takes the opportunity to spend a bit of quality time with the pigs.” She reached for a towel and dried her hands energetically. “Geoff’s trying some Gloucester Old Spot and Tamworth crosses at the moment. Nice-looking pigs. He’ll be back soon.”
“Geoff’s a happy man, isn’t he? He’s got his pigs, this place, his stamp collection …”
Maggie, who had removed her glasses in the final stage of preparing her pie, now replaced them. “Yes, I think he’s happy. Although sometimes he wonders whether he isn’t getting in a rut with the farming thing and shouldn’t do something different with his life while he’s still got the energy for new projects.”
“The worst question to ask oneself,” said William. “Therein lies regret after regret.”
Maggie nodded. “Yes. The only point in asking that question is to sharpen up how one approaches the rest of one’s time. Having the odd regret might warn us against wasting our chances.” She paused, moving across the kitchen to gaze out of the window. The sun was on her face now, creating a halo effect through her slightly disordered hair. “I’ve often thought that the worst regret must be to think that one’s spent one’s life with the wrong person. It must be terrible, truly terrible.”
William agreed. “And yet many people must feel that, mustn’t they?”
“Yes. They must. Though these days, most of them can get out of their relationship—and do.”
William thought about this. He had friends who acknowledged that they were staying together for the sake of their children. He thought it noble. Maggie, though, seemed uncertain. “Noble? I suppose that any form of sacrifice has a certain nobility to it. And yet foolish may be an equally good way of describing it. Throwing away twenty years of your life, or however long, could be viewed as downright silly rather than noble.”
“Except it’s not throwing away twenty years—it’s setting them aside for a higher cause.”
No, she was even more unsure about that. “What did Horace say? Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. It’s sweet and fitting to die for one’s country. Is it really? Or is it just bad luck?”
“I’m uncomfortable about that, Maggie. Really uncomfortable. Giving your life for something can be a magnificent thing to do, heroic …”
She was silent for a moment. “Yes, you’re right,” she conceded. “That was going too far. It depends on the cause, though. What if your country’s fighting an unjust war, or even a useless one? What then?”
“It may still be the right thing to do.”
This brought a sideways look from Maggie. “Maybe … But look, shall we go for a walk? By the time we come back Geoff will have returned from the pigs, and the two of you can have a whisky together before our guests arrive. We’ve invited a few people over for supper. Freddie de la Hay would like a walk, wouldn’t he? Where is he by the way?”
He had not seen Freddie since he came into the house. The dog had gone off to sniff about the garden, and William knew that he was unlikely to go far: Freddie de la Hay was no wanderer. “If he wants to come, he’ll turn up,” he said. “Otherwise he’ll be perfectly happy investigating your garden. You don’t mind, do you?”
Maggie did not. She fetched an old Barbour jacket—“Such a cliché,” she said, “but so comfortable and practical. Please don’t judge.”
“I have one myself,” said William. “And green wellingtons too.”
“Good. Then we’ll both sink into our stereotypes.”
They went outside. The summer solstice was six weeks in the past, as the slant of the evening sun revealed, but the air was still warm and heavy. Maggie had planted lavender in profusion and its scent was all about them, mingling with that of recently cut grass. William sniffed at it as he would at a good Médoc, savouring the fragrance. The olfactory treat made him think of Freddie, and he called the dog several times.
“Nowhere to be seen?” asked Maggie.
“He’ll turn up,” said William. “He always does.”
They set off down a path that led past the barn and into one of the fields. As they walked, Maggie returned to the subject of her thesis.
“You know what I feel when I sit down to write about Iris Murdoch? You know what goes through my mind?”
William shrugged. “The ideas?” he suggested. “All those ideas you talked about?”
“No,” said Maggie. “I feel sad. I think sad thoughts.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s no longer with us. Because such a wonderful intelligence is silent. But mostly because the intellectual elite that used to be at the centre of our national life here is changing and there’s no room for such figures. What we have instead are sound-bite merchants.”
William was puzzled. “But there are plenty of people with opinions.”
“Are there?” asked Maggie. “Or are those who come out with something slightly different shouted down? Don’t you think there’s a certain hegemony of opinion these days? An approved way of thinking? Don’t you think that it’s considered almost indecent now to voice an opinion that deviates from the consensus?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps it’s a bit like that.”
Maggie said nothing for a moment. “Perhaps. But …” She hesitated, as if weighing whether or not to continue. “You know what you said back there about unhappiness. You talked about Geoff’s happiness. But you didn’t ask about me, did you?”
He was slightly taken aback. “Didn’t I? Well, that’s very rude of me. I suppose it’s because I’ve always assumed that you’re perfectly happy. You have your …” What did Maggie have—her thesis on Iris Murdoch? Her Melton Mowbray pies? Her family?
“My kitchen? Is that what you were going to say?”
“No. Certainly not. You’ve got your thesis. But it’s not just a question of what you have—it’s a matter of attitude. And I think that your attitude, your disposition, is fundamentally happy.”
Her voice was quiet. “Well, it’s not. I’m not happy, William. I’m not happy.”
He stopped. The stick he was carrying, a bit of oak branch, fell to the ground. He did not bend to pick it up. “Why?” he asked. “Why do you say you’re unhappy?”
She was looking at him directly, staring into his eyes. “Because of you,” she said softly. “Because I’m in love with you, William. I’ve loved you for years—for years—and I’ve never had the courage to confess it to anybody. Well, now I’m telling you.”