Benedict

‘How did it go?’

‘All right. There were a lot of people. The church was overflowing.’

‘And how are you?’

‘Fine. Busy. Surviving.’

‘And how are you really?’

A long pause. ‘Tell you Saturday.’

Walking the dogs after breakfast on Saturday morning, I went over Wednesday’s phone conversation with Elin. We’d gone on to chat about her week so far, the people she’d met, the family, but she wasn’t giving much away. Busy? Yes, she’d certainly be busy with all the running round you have to do after a death in the family. Surviving? Of course. Elin was a survivor par excellence. But fine? Hardly. Which was why I’d arranged to meet for lunch. I needed to see how she really was.

I was worried about her, had been worried all through the charity conference in Paris that prevented me going with her to the funeral. With her mobile switched off and myself occupied with meetings all hours, there was no way we’d been able to speak.

‘I’m fine.’ That was what she’d said the day she heard about Gareth’s fatal heart attack. Arriving at her flat that evening I’d found her rushing round, organising everything that conceivably needed organising, unable to stay still. I’d almost had to force her to sit down and eat. And then I think she only gave in because I’d gone to the trouble of cooking the meal myself and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Outwardly she was coping, but fine? My foot.

I smiled to myself. Funny, exasperating, argumentative, adorable woman. She could drive me mad at times with her pigheadedness and stubborn independence but I couldn’t live without her. Did she love me as much as I loved her? I thought so, hoped so, but only time would tell.

‘Why don’t you and Elin get hitched, Dad?’ Lara had said after we’d spent Christmas together as a family, Elin included. ‘Get her to make an honest man of you.’

I wasn’t sure about being ‘made’ an honest man. I was being as honest and honourable as I could, I thought, trying not to push Elin into a more definite commitment than she could manage or might want, keeping my desire for her within bounds. But I wanted to make her my wife one day. No doubt of it. The question was when.

We came to the lake and I called the dogs to heel. Tess, Brandy and Thistle aren’t to be trusted when there are waterfowl in range and the moorhens weren’t doing well this year. Too many mink about. I needed to talk to Jem about the best way to deal with them before we were overrun.

I stopped to look at a flotilla of Mallard ducklings feeding with their mother, swimming busily in circles – ‘like giant fluffy gnats, buzzing about,’ Elin says. She loves to watch them. Could I see her settling here eventually? I hoped so. If there was enough to occupy her active mind and plenty of trips to London to stave off boredom, I thought we could be happy. I smiled again. We’re an odd mix, both of us. Country-loving but cosmopolitan. Lovers of the natural world but needing the buzz of the city.

Taking the path by the lake, one of her favourite walks, I reviewed our shared history...

We met in October 1977, at a party given by old friends of mine in Bromley. It was the year after my father died and I was running the estate by then. Karin and the girls were already settled here, but I had a case to complete for my old firm which meant staying in London during the week till it was finished. Tony and Zelda had asked me, I suspect out of pity for my enforced solitary state.

I arrived early and Elin was already there. I found her on her own in the large sitting room, examining the bottles on the drinks table one by one, picking them up to read their labels. From the back she looked like a teenager. The straight black dress emphasised her slimness. The red-gold hair that tumbled to her shoulders made her look younger than she was. One of Alice’s schoolfriends, I assumed, Tony and Zelda’s eldest was sixteen at the time.

But when she turned round, I found myself facing a woman with a thin, freckled face that was attractive rather than beautiful. Her pale hazel eyes met mine in a look that was both quizzical and amused. ‘Are we the only guests, do you suppose? And should we help ourselves?’ She picked up a corkscrew from the table and turned it over in her hands.

‘Tony ought to be doing the honours. He loves to play barman. Where’s he got to?’ I looked round for other signs of life. Nine-year-old Debra had let me in then vanished upstairs to where I could hear a television game show playing.

‘He was here five minutes ago then disappeared. Something domestic I imagine, from the screams.’

‘That’ll be the twins. They probably want to stay up and see everyone arrive.’

‘My fault. My coming upset things. I used to have a reputation for being late at home, now I’m disgustingly early. Must be the effects of city life and solitary living.’

Did I imagine the lilt in her voice?

‘So, you’re not a Londoner?’ I took the corkscrew from her hand and opened the bottle of Chardonnay she’d been scrutinising. ‘This do? I’m sure Tony won’t mind.’ I poured us both a glass.

When we were settled on the window seat she asked. ‘Is it obvious? That I’m not from the city?’

‘Only the hint of an accent. You’re from North Wales, I assume.’

‘And I’ve been trying to sound so metropolitan.’ She wrinkled her nose.

‘But I’m from Cheshire, so I have an ear for a Gog.’

Her face lit up. ‘You speak Welsh?’

‘Tipyn bach yn unig, I’m afraid. My mother was from Holywell.’

‘Byd bach. Did she give you a good Welsh name?’

I shook my head. ‘A good Catholic name – Benedict. But I was baptised in water from St. Winefred’s shrine.’

‘Well, well.’ She stopped speaking and blushed. ‘Sorry about the pun.’ But her accompanying grin was impish. ‘A bad habit. I’m Elin Pritchard.’ She kept her hands firmly round her wineglass.

‘A good Welsh name. So what are you doing in London?’

‘Training as a solicitor. I’m a late starter. I spent time working for a PhD’

‘Dr. Pritchard, then.’

She shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. I messed up along the way. Had time out and couldn’t get back into it. This is my second attempt at a career.’ The defiant lift of her chin dared me to commiserate. I found her honesty appealing.

‘And are you enjoying it?’

‘It’s not bad. Maybe it’ll get more interesting as it goes along.’ She looked round the room. There was still no sign of other guests. ‘I suppose this is the right night?’

‘It is. I know what a muddle this room would be if it weren’t.’

‘You must be old friends, then.’

‘Yes. Tony and I were at Downside together. Then Oxford.’

‘He’s my immediate boss. So, what do you do?’ I was aware of her searching gaze.

‘I have land on the Cheshire-Staffordshire border so that makes me a farmer. But I was a solicitor before that and still keep my hand in. I’m also a political animal and like to be where the action is.’

‘True blue? Or am I misjudging you?’ Seeing my nod, she added, ‘Ten years ago I’d have been demonstrating against your lot. Against any English, actually.’

‘We’re not all bad. You’re a nationalist, then. I’ve always wanted to meet one of those.’

‘You make me sound like something out of a zoo. I’m not sure where I stand these days, though I think Wales has had a poor deal.’ She looked into her glass. ‘I’m not a Tory as I expect you can guess.’

‘I’m not a high and dry Conservative.’ I needed to justify myself. ‘Being part Welsh I can understand a little how you feel. And I don’t hunt if that makes me more acceptable.’

‘So long as you don’t shoot the peasants.’ She grinned at me, finished her drink with a flourish and gazed at her glass. ‘I shouldn’t have another, should I? We must leave something for the rest. I haven’t had much today.’

I found a bowl of peanuts and passed them. ‘I presume you mean food not alcohol.’

‘Thanks. I forget to eat sometimes.’ She helped herself. ‘Too busy. You know.’ She waved a hand.

I didn’t as it happened. Even away from Karin’s excellent cooking, I made sure I ate well. I suddenly felt much older than my fellow guest, though, as I discovered later, there were only five years between us. Talking to her was like meeting my undergraduate self.

She said between mouthfuls. ‘So what do you think about the nuclear deterrent? And equal pay for equal work?’

‘You’re not a feminist, are you? If so do you want an argument or a pleasant evening?’

Her eyes flashed. ‘Can’t we have both? What’s wrong with a lively discussion between civilised adults? You might be persuaded to see things in a fresh light.’

‘Much as I’d like to be illuminated, we don’t want to end up at each others’ throats. Or spoil the party.’

‘Sorry. I like to spark off a good debate.’ Her voice softened. ‘Not everybody does. I realise that now. Maybe I’m growing up.’

The switch from political idealist to apologetic school-girl was endearing.

‘I can see you in politics.’ I removed the peanuts before she finished them and poured her a glass of soda water and fruit juice. ‘Have this. It’ll fill the gap without addling the brain. You can argue better if you’re sober.’ She laughed and I caught her eye. It was then that I came under her spell.

‘I see you’ve introduced yourselves.’ Tony appeared holding a plate of warm vol-au-vents. ‘Elin’s our brightest recruit, Ben. She’ll give you a mental run for your money any day.’

‘So I’ve noticed.’ The impression of a sharp intelligence was well founded, then.

‘I’ve told her she’ll go far,’ Tony put the plate down and winked at me, ‘if she can learn tact.’

Elin made a face and we laughed.

We circulated separately for a time when the other guests arrived but spent most of the evening together, making outrageous puns and putting the world to rights. I found her company refreshing after the unrelieved intensity of work. She helped me forget the miles between myself and my family and the loneliness of living apart from them. I was uncomfortably aware that what I felt for her was more than a married man should feel for a girl at a drinks party.

Afraid she might feel the same, I told her I had a wife and children in Cheshire. I didn’t want there to be any misunderstanding. But she seemed pleased for me. I was ashamed to find that I minded.

I interrupted my musings to watch a heron plunge his beak in the water and come up with one of my trout. I couldn’t begrudge him his breakfast, but was glad when the dogs disturbed him and stopped him taking more. He flapped slowly away to plunder someone else’s lake.

‘They’re so beautiful,’ Elin said in defence after she’d seen a heron swallow three trout in succession and I’d scared it off.

‘So they are but if you run a sporting estate they’re a problem. I don’t want all my young fish to disappear.’

‘You’d never kill one, though.’

‘Of course not. They’re protected. But I’m not putting up a sign to say “eat all you like”. ’

‘It’s striking a balance,’ I explained. ‘I don’t mind herons taking one or two trout a day. But I want them to leave something for the anglers who pay to come and fish.’

Did I get the balance right between my friendship with Elin and my love for my wife? A tricky question. I pondered it as I walked the familiar path. Was my feeling for Elin all those years ago more than friendship? Can you be in love with two women at once?

I struggled with it at the time. How could I be in love with Elin? I was happily married with two lovely daughters. Karin, Lara and Ismene meant the world to me. My commitment to Christian marriage meant I could never think of Elin except as a friend. Yet I did think of her. More than was comfortable.

I never told anyone about this. I was shocked, I suppose, to find myself as prone to temptation as the next man. I clung to biblical promises of strength in time of need and proverbs that told me ‘you can’t stop birds flying round your head but you don’t have to let them nest in your hair’. Difficult when thoughts of Elin came at me in unexpected moments, like hibernating butterflies beating against a window when they should be asleep.

I called Tess off from chasing a pheasant. Why agonise over this now? I asked myself. Thank God that you stayed faithful to Karin and never broke your marriage vows. She was your childhood sweetheart, a wonderful mother to your children. She gave you peace and rest when you came home worn out after political infighting and party battles. She was warm, compassionate and kind and you loved her to the end.

I’d been humbled by Karin’s courage in her illness. And by her faith, which was stronger than mine, though I was the churchgoer when we married. Across the lake I could just make out the young Dawyck beech I’d planted in her memory, next to her favourite ride. By the time Karin developed breast cancer Elin was half the world away and thoughts of her had receded. But I’d still been haunted by guilt. Had I sacrificed too much for my parliamentary career, given too much time to London friends, Elin included, and neglected my wife and family at home in the country?

‘Do something for others,’ advised a priest when I poured out all the guilt and self-recrimination. Wise man. I needed to be taken out of myself. Grief can make you turn inwards.

How was it affecting Elin? I wondered. She’d rung her brother every week, been close to him though they didn’t meet much. She was going to miss him badly. She might put on a brave front but I knew she’d need me. Spirited, irrepressible, stubborn she might be, but I didn’t think she could cope with this on her own.

It was her fighting spirit and independence that had drawn me to her at first. And her energy, idealism and sense of fun. With her quick mind and skill in repartee she swept into my life like a breath of fresh air. Her no holds barred approach to debate forced me to re-examine old certainties and look beyond accepted beliefs. I never for a moment ditched the loyalty to country and family that formed the bedrock of my life, but Elin made me question it. And she challenged my intellect. At Oxford I’d wanted to be an academic, but family duty and my father’s ill health ruled it out. It was Elin who revived that side of me, breathing new life into my thinking, sharpening my mind against hers.

Could she have become my ‘bit on the side’? I frowned at the question but I needed to be honest with myself. Perhaps, with today’s morality. But only if we’d been different people. True, there were enough affairs going on in politics when I started my career to make everyone look to their marriages. Too much separation from family was always a risk. But I was sure Elin hadn’t wanted a love affair any more than I had at the time. We were good friends and stayed that way. Didn’t someone – Jack Dominian or
C S Lewis – say friends stand side by side and look at the world while lovers look at each other? That definition made us friends, though ours was a close friendship.

What did trouble me was that I shared more of my inner self, my ideals, doubts and political questionings, with Elin than with Karin. But Karin wasn’t interested in these things. She didn’t want what I shared with Elin and couldn’t give me what Elin gave back. They only met once, at a dinner party at Tony’s, on one of the rare occasions I managed to persuade Karin to leave her beloved horses and dogs and come to London. Then Karin was bored with the talk at table. ‘I can’t cope with your City friends,’ she told me afterwards. ‘They’re too high-powered for me.’ So Elin remained my friend not ours.

Did our friendship develop because I was married and Elin felt safe? That was always a possibility, knowing her as I do now. Did she want to avoid commitments and concentrate on her career? Very likely. Promotion would have been impossible at that time and in that firm if she’d been married with a family. But I worried then that our friendship distracted her from meeting other men, men she might have married. Now, of course, I’m not sorry it did.

I had news of Elin off and on after that first meeting. Tony kept me up to date with her. She was a challenge to him too. ‘I can’t find enough work to stretch her.’ He said, ‘She’s as keen as mustard. Certainly keeps me up to scratch.’

‘And breaking hearts,’ added Zelda. We were having supper one Wednesday night. ‘Men are fooled by that innocent look. They find they’ve bitten off more than they can chew when they get to know her.’

‘If she allows them long enough,’ Tony said. ‘Our Ms Pritchard doesn’t suffer fools gladly. It’ll be a brave man or a very intelligent one that snaps her up.’

Zelda snorted and went to fetch the cheese. ‘Snapping her up indeed! You ought to read Germaine Greer. Women are more than ornaments to please the opposite sex.’

‘See what Elin’s done,’ Tony said, ‘corrupted the wife as well.’

Elin and I ran into each other several times while I was finishing my London job: at a dinner party to which we’d both been invited, a business reception, a book launch, a symposium on pensions law, a conference on unemployment. In large gatherings we’d gravitate towards one another and end up arguing in a corner. She didn’t seem to have many close friends, though I knew she and Gareth meant a lot to each other. And she had few women as friends, though she made a great deal of her feminism. Knowing her, she saw sisterhood as a principle, a grand ideal, nothing to do with real-life people. But she sparkled in male company. She’d had a series of escorts, Tony said, though none lasted long.

‘I’m afraid she’ll end up an office dragon,’ he admitted, ‘which would be a waste. She’s too attractive for that.’

‘Or a politician,’ I suggested, thinking of my own leanings in that direction.

We began meeting in 1983. I gave a talk on the Morality of Capitalism at a lunchtime Lent series in one of the city churches and Elin was there. When I’d finished, she pushed against the flow of departing people to question something I’d said. She was on her academic high horse, the would-be constitutional historian quoting parliamentary acts at me and we could hardly hear ourselves over the buzz of chatter. Since I had only a hazy idea of what she was saying and our discussion was becoming heated, I suggested we adjourn to the nearest pub to continue in peace.

‘Let me buy you a drink and we can talk about this in comfort. I don’t need to be anywhere till two.’

‘I’ve only got half an hour.’ She looked at her watch. ‘But if you can spare the time, I’ll be happy to put you right.’ Her half smile told me she was joking but I knew she wouldn’t let me off lightly. If anyone could spot a hole in an argument, she could.

She’d cut her hair, I noticed. A pity. She’d looked like an ancient warrior queen with those long, flowing locks. But I supposed that sort of style was hardly appropriate for an up-and-coming lawyer in a City firm, especially a firm as long-established and conservative as hers.

When we got down to discussion I had to admit she had a point. Annoying that, why was she always right? But I didn’t agree that it demolished my whole argument. With both of us more or less satisfied – ‘One all,’ Elin said, with her usual ironic smile – we fell to debating the possible confrontation between the Government and the miners. It looked to be on the cards should the Tories win the election.

‘Are you really going to stand?’ Elin was shocked when I told her I was a candidate. ‘How can you support that woman? I find it shaming that the country’s first female PM should come from the Right.’ She tossed her unfamiliar thick bob.

‘She had to come from somewhere,’ I pointed out, ‘and I suspect socialists are a lot less open to women’s leadership than the Tories. The working classes are very conservative – small c.’

‘Benedict Palmer, you’re an unregenerate snob.’

‘And you’re a hopeless idealist. Is it time you went, or may I buy you another drink?’

Elin said she’d never speak to me again if I was elected. Instead we found ourselves meeting fortnightly for lunch in our favourite City pub, debating the issues of the moment.

I smiled remembering those days. I could see Elin now, waving her fork at me, eyes alight, as she pointed out some flaw in a loved theory of mine. We were opposites politically. She was a natural left-winger, City lawyer or not, and railed against what she called the lunacy of letting the country’s industrial base decline. She disliked tax concessions for the rich and the plan to sell off council houses. I believed in a free market, encouraging thrift, and giving people choice in matters like education and health. We rarely agreed. She challenged everything I stood for but was so witty about it that we laughed more than we argued. And half the time she’d be so engrossed in discussion that she’d forget to eat. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said once. ‘I’m dining with a client tonight. That’ll make up for it. Anyway ideas are more interesting than steak pie.’

We’ve mellowed since, I thought, keeping a close eye out for rabbits. Years ago Elin took great pleasure in debunking any notions I had about mine or my party’s right to rule and I enjoyed pointing out inconsistencies in her brand of socialism. Now I’d given up all illusions about Tory superiority and she fumed about the proliferation of laws under the present Government. I smiled. We were obviously older and wiser.

But I loved our verbal battles. I used to leave those lunches with a spring in my step, better able to face opponents within and outside the party. If I could survive one of Elin’s grillings, I reasoned, I could cope with anything. And she kept my feet on the ground. ‘Cheer up,’ she said one day after a bruising debate in the House. ‘If you don’t get re-elected, you can always go home and keep fish.’

‘I could have become a party political bore or a right-wing fanatic, if it hadn’t been for you,’ I told Elin recently.

‘No you wouldn’t. You’re too nice. Anyway, you weren’t ruthless enough to be an out-and-out Thatcherite. You cared too much about people.’ I was flattered by her observation but I wouldn’t have been years ago. I saw myself then as a man of principle, strong minded, astute and committed to maintaining the right course no matter what. Perhaps I needed Elin to show me other ways of seeing the world.

I smiled and took one last look at the lake before retracing my steps to the farm. The heron was back and I didn’t have the heart to disturb him. Elin would have been pleased.

She always said she enjoyed our lunchtime discussions. I suspect there weren’t many who could cope with her sort of verbal combat.

‘I expect it’s my way of letting off steam,’ she admitted in a moment of rare self-disclosure as we parted one day. ‘The antidote to being polite to clients.’

‘You went into the wrong branch of law,’ I told her. ‘You should have been a barrister.’

‘I started too late,’ she said, ‘and it’s harder for a woman there than in my line of country.’ True then. But her career was progressing well, fulfilling all Tony’s predictions.

In May ’85 she rang me unexpectedly from work. ‘I’ve got a new job. They’re setting up an office in Hong Kong and want me there. I’m clearing my flat to let it. Could you store some boxes for me?’

I considered my Holland Park apartment. ‘Yes, I can manage that. And congratulations. You deserve it after all your hard work.’ I tried not to think how much I would miss having her in the same city.

‘I’ll feed you as a reward,’ she promised, ‘I can order a takeaway.’ Cooking was never her strong point.

‘When do you leave?’

‘As soon as possible. Next week if everything can be sorted out in time. I’d like to see Gareth first, of course.’

We moved her things that Friday evening then ate a Balti in her Dulwich flat with a bottle of wine I’d bought to celebrate.

‘I’ll send you a postcard from time to time and give you the low-down on Far Eastern politics,’ she promised, as we relaxed in her first floor sitting room.

I was determined to be pleased for her and squashed my mixed feelings. We started discussing women’s ordination, a hot topic then.

‘I’ve joined The Movement for the Ordination of Women,’ she announced. ‘Being agnostic doesn’t bar me, apparently.’

‘Most Anglicans don’t know what they believe anyway,’ I said loftily, ‘I’m not against ordaining women myself.’

‘Your Pope is.’

‘He isn’t “my Pope”. And English Catholics have a flexible approach to authority. I know many nuns who’d make excellent priests.’

‘Ah, but what about married women?’

‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘See! Sexual stereotyping raises it ugly head. The Virgin Mary’s okay, nuns are okay, but what about ordinary women who do regular jobs and raise children and—’

‘Motherhood’s a full-time job, or should be.’

‘What about your beloved leader then. Margaret Thatcher has children and look what she does. Or doesn’t she count?’

I shifted uncomfortably. Trust Elin to find my weak spot. ‘She’s an exception. And anyway she has help and a supportive husband. And she’s excellent at time management.’

‘So it’s all right for the rich, but not for the poor.’

‘I’m not saying that. I’m saying, as a general rule, that it’s the mother who should give up work to care for the children. After all it’s the most important job in the world.’

‘God, Ben, I hate it when you’re pious…and pompous.’

‘Pompous or not, it’s true.’ I ploughed on aware I’d been sliding over shaky ground but trying to recover the moral ascendancy. ‘We wouldn’t be in the mess we are now if working mothers weren’t leaving their children prey to God knows what.’

‘You talk like a bloody Tory politician. I should expect rubbish from a traditionalist. And a country landowner too.’ She threw a cushion at me.

‘I am a Tory politician in case you hadn’t noticed. And you can’t flout biology, my good woman. Females, on the whole, are meant to look after their offspring. Not dump them in nurseries and prance off to feather their own careers.’

‘Don’t you mean further? And don’t you “good woman” me! Where would the country be if half the clever women, half the population, sat on their backsides and did damn-all – to say nothing of giving their daughters inappropriate role models?’

‘They’re a quarter of the population, probably less. And bringing up children isn’t damn-all. Ask Karin, ask Zelda, ask any mother.’

An uncomfortable silence ensued. I picked up the cushion she’d thrown and put it on the sofa with elaborate care. ‘Not a bad shot.’ And settled back in my seat. ‘Anyway, what do you know of motherhood as a career woman?’

I expected a witty riposte. Instead Elin went white, said she would make the coffee and stalked out, tight-lipped.

‘Fool,’ I told myself, ‘you’ve upset her now.’ This wasn’t supposed to happen when we were on the verge of years apart. But I couldn’t think what I had said to offend. It was no holds barred when we argued. Elin always gave as good as she got, better usually.

I followed her into the kitchen. ‘Sorry.’

‘Go away.’ She was leaning over the work surface and refused to look at me. I realised from the shaking of her shoulders that she was crying. That feisty Elin Pritchard should be in tears was unnerving.

I put my arm round her. ‘I’m sorry, Elin. I was patronising and arrogant. I had no right…’ But she pushed me off.

‘You can say what you think. That’s what we’ve always agreed. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have pressed the point.’ She splashed milk into mugs of coffee, spilling it on the work surface, scraped a spoon in the empty sugar bowl and searched in the cupboard for sugar without success.

I looked over her shoulder and found it. ‘Here.’

‘Bother you.’ She turned to face me, defiant. ‘If you really want to know, I had a kid when I was a student and had it adopted. So all this talk of motherhood’s a sick joke. I even failed at that.’

What could I say? That I’m sure it was for the best? That at least she didn’t have it aborted? That it was better for a child not to grow up in a single-parent family? As I absorbed this bombshell my pious rhetoric crashed about my ears. I saw the depth of her feeling and was powerless to touch it.

‘And now I can’t find the bloody tray.’ She glared at me, torn between laughter and tears, then gave way to both. For a moment she sobbed on my shoulder.

‘Sorry,’ her voice was muffled. I caught only snatches of what she was saying as I held her and struggled to find a clean handkerchief.

‘I didn’t want to give him up…Gareth said it was best…’

It came home to me then how significant Elin’s brother was in her life.

She detached herself abruptly, took my handkerchief and blew her nose.

‘Thanks. Sorry about that. It must be the move stirring up the past.’

I hovered uncertainly. I wanted to ask what had happened but didn’t like to pry. Instead I found the tray she had mislaid and put it on the work surface.

‘Thanks.’ She managed a smile. Setting our mugs on the tray with a box of After Eights, she said with forced brightness, ‘let’s consider the subject closed, shall we?’ and led the way to the sitting room as if nothing had happened.

Neither of us felt like resuming the argument. We sat on the sofa while I tried to get my mind round Elin’s surprising revelation. I wondered how to reassure her that I thought none the less of her for giving up her child. But the subject was closed, she said. With Elin that was final.

Time ticked by as the evening drew in. The last rays of sunset faded from the mirror opposite the bay window.

‘Thanks, Ben.’ Elin broke the silence. She had kicked off her shoes and was curled up beside me, her head on my shoulder. It was unusual for her to be so quiet. ‘You’re a good friend. I’m going to miss our spats.’ She smiled up at me. ‘We’re like a pair of old shoes. We pinch occasionally but we’re comfortable most of the time.’

‘I’m not sure I find that flattering,’ I said, stroking her hair. ‘What am I going to do without you around to sharpen my wits?’

‘You’ll cope. Maybe it’ll be good not to see each other for a while. I might give away too much after tonight. God knows what else I might say.’

I wondered what she meant by that. I’d always realised there was much about Elin I didn’t know, about her past or what she felt. Ideas were our main currency.

We were relaxed, edging towards a physical intimacy we had never entertained before. Part of me thought, this is the last time we’ll see each other for five years at least. Make the most of it while you can. But my conscience signalled danger. I thought of Karin and of Elin. What if Elin and I crossed the well-defined boundaries of our friendship? Where might it end? Could she, could we, cope with that level of closeness? I had glimpsed a side of her I’d never seen before. For all her fighting spirit, she was more vulnerable than I’d imagined. I didn’t want to destroy the friendship we had.

She must have caught my thought for she sat up suddenly and looked at the clock. ‘Half past eleven. You’d better be going. Haven’t you got a train to catch in the morning?’ She felt for her shoes. ‘And I must think about packing. There’s so much to do.’ She gave me an affectionate glance. ‘A pity one can’t crate up one’s friends and take them as well.’

‘Thanks for the meal, even if you didn’t cook it.’ I stretched stiff limbs.

‘Be grateful for small mercies. You’d need a box of Rennies if I had.’ She stood up and smiled at me. ‘Thanks for helping out, Ben. It’ll be strange working so far away, but I’m looking forward to it. I like a challenge.’

‘You’ll do fine,’ I assured her as we went downstairs.

She paused before opening the front door and laid her hand on my arm. ‘Am I forgiven?’

‘What for?’

‘For being a hard-nosed career woman rather than a good Conservative mother?’

‘I’ll have to mind what I say in future speeches.’

‘Maybe I’ve done you some good after all.’

‘You’ll write?’ I asked on the doorstep.

‘Try to.’ She hugged me and I kissed her on the cheek. Then she pushed me into the night.

We didn’t see each other much in the next fifteen years. We met sometimes on Elin’s annual visits to the UK if I happened to be in London at the time, but our paths and the tenor of our lives diverged.

In 1990 we managed a lunch in our old sparring place. Elin arrived bright-eyed and excited. ‘I’m moving to Singapore,’ she said, barely able to contain her pleasure. The firm’s setting up an office there and want me to be in at the start.’

‘That’s a feather in your cap.’ I was pleased for her. ‘And how is life in the capitalist Far East?’

She gave a rueful smile. ‘You’re right about the capitalist bit. My socialist principles are under attack. But I try to give good service and keep my nose clean.’ She paused and shrugged. ‘I try not to delve too closely into the records of some of the clients I deal with – human rights and so on. But it’s not too bad. And I get to meet lots of interesting people. How about you?’ She gave me one of her searching looks.

I fingered my glass of bitter. I didn’t want to cast a shadow over our reunion.

‘I suppose I’ve lost my edge, or mislaid my vision somewhere along the line.’ It was the first time I’d honestly faced my feelings of discontent.

‘Your party’s been in power too long.’

‘Maybe that’s it.’ I gave a sigh and finished my drink. ‘I might be cynical in my old age…’ I paused, searching for words.

‘But?’ she prompted, looking me in the eye.

Yes, there had to be a ‘but’. ‘I suppose I’m fed up with all this squabbling and back-stabbing,’ I began. ‘The poll tax was a disaster. Anyone could have seen that it was going to be. And no one seems to care about the long-term jobless – you know, those families where unemployment runs down the generations. Or the young people in our cities…’ I stopped and looked at her. ‘I could go on.’ Somehow it didn’t feel disloyal to be talking this way with Elin for all her instinctive criticism of my party. She was abroad now, an outsider.

‘They’ll make a socialist of you yet,’ she exulted. Then seeing my face she added sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry it’s like this for you. Politics is a funny game.’

‘You can say that again.’ I managed a smile.

‘And how are the cows? I hope you’re not going to tell me you’ve had BSE on the farm?’

‘No. At least that’s one area that’s going all right.’

‘Let’s drink to that, then,’ she said brightly. ‘Good health to the Palmer herd. And to their owner.’ And she gave me her old teasing smile.

Two years later I was wishing she’d said the same for my wife. It was still hard to look back on that period. So many events came together that left painful memories. First I found myself moving to the left of my party, joining the so-called ‘wets’ who were much derided in the Tory press at the time. Then the government ran out of steam and passed a number of hasty measures I’m sure we’ll come to regret, to say nothing of getting mired in ‘sleaze’. Worst of all Karin, lost her battle with breast cancer in April 1996. It was the darkest time of my life.

By contrast, that same year, Elin received the just reward for all her hard work. ‘She’s got a Senior Partnership,’ Tony told me at Christmas. ‘About time too. If she wasn’t a woman she’d have got it years ago. She’s far and away the best person for setting up new projects and looking after trainees.’

I wrote to congratulate her. It was the first time we’d corresponded since Karin’s death. We began to write regularly after that. I needed someone to pour out my thoughts to, especially after the 1997 election debacle.

‘I can’t say I’m surprised at the Labour landslide,’ she wrote back – and I was eternally grateful to her for not crowing. ‘It’s been coming a long time. But I’m sorry you’re out of a job. What do you plan to do now? Are you going to farm quietly or will you get involved with some of your good causes?’

I did both though it was hard concentrating on anything for a time.

‘You’re depressed, Dad,’ Lara said when they came to the farm that Christmas. ‘Why don’t you take a holiday?’

‘Yes. How about going to stay with Auntie Val in New Zealand,’ Ismene put in. I could smell a conspiracy but thought, why not? It’ll be summer there in January. And the family could do with a break from me in this state.

Odd, how things work out, I thought, joining the access road that leads to the farm and starting on the last half mile. Would Elin and I have got together if I hadn’t made that visit to Valentine’s stud farm? Of course there’s no knowing. But it certainly made it easier.

I had to break my journey in Singapore so I rang Elin to see if I could call on her.

‘How long can you stay?’ she asked, ‘I could take time out and show you around if you like. I’m due some leave.’ So I spent two nights in her apartment on the fifth floor of a modern condominium.

It was good to meet again. Elin greeted me warmly and seemed as pleased to see me as I was her. Maybe she was making allowances for my bereaved state, but she seemed gentler and less combative than usual. She listened sympathetically while I brought her up to date with my doings and fed me an excellent curry. It was a relief to be in the company of an old friend with no need for pretence.

‘Your cooking’s improved,’ I told her as we relaxed over coffee in her ultra-modern armchairs. Elin’s living room was all glass and chrome and contemporary lighting. I thought of the Dulwich flat’s softness with regret.

‘I’m not sure you ever tried it.’ She smiled. ‘I was too kind to force it on you, remember? Didn’t we always eat out?’

‘I’ve missed our sessions, putting the world to rights.’

‘We can resume them in a year or two if you want. I’m coming back to London in 2000.’ She paused as I put my cup on the glass-topped table between us, ‘More coffee?’ and came over with the jug to refill it. I caught a hint of her expensive perfume and realised how starved I was of feminine company. Daughters were all very well but Lara and Izzie had been bullying me. I was glad to be away from them for a while.

Elin sat down, crossing her legs gracefully. ‘Having trained a team of local lawyers,’ she continued, ‘I’ve worked myself out of a job.’

‘Is that good or bad?’ I asked. ‘For you, I mean?’

She looked serious. ‘I’m not sure. I wonder if I’ve hit the proverbial glass ceiling. The firm’s very male-dominated. Younger women on the way up will have a better chance than I have of making it to the top. After fifty you’re on your way out in this line of business.’

‘Come on, Elin. That doesn’t sound like you. Where’s your feminist fighting spirit?’

She smiled. ‘Oh, that’s not gone. But maybe I should look for other battles to fight. I could go into politics, for example. After last year’s election disaster and its traumas over Europe your party needs to rediscover its soul – I could help them find it.’ She raised an eyebrow and grinned at me. ‘Or I could write a scurrilous novel,’ she went on, ‘about mega-deals and mergers, call it The Lawyers and make a mint selling the film rights to TV companies. Or,’ she paused, ‘I could go back to my first love and finish my PhD.’ She ticked these off on her fingers, a mischievous light in her hazel eyes.

‘You’re teasing,’ I accused her.

‘Not about the last, though I’d choose a different subject now. “A Comparison between English Medieval Law Codes and the Laws of Hywel Dda” doesn’t have the appeal it once had.’

‘Was that it?’ I stared in amazement.

She laughed. ‘Maybe it was a good thing I gave up. Or,’ she added with a wicked grin, ‘I might find a nice Japanese millionaire to marry and save myself the hassle of deciding.’

‘Elin Pritchard, you’re incorrigible,’ I told her. ‘You haven’t changed a bit.’

But she had. She was more attractive, more sophisticated, better dressed and less abrasive than she once was. It occurred to me then that if she didn’t find a Japanese millionaire, a Cheshire landowner might be an acceptable substitute.

I squashed the idea. A typical bereaved person’s hunger for affection, I rationalised. But after that our letters became more frequent. We shared more of ourselves. And we discovered the immediacy of e-mail.

We were nearly back at the farmhouse now, facing the slight rise up to the farmyard. I paused at a gate to look over our new Holsteins, who were grazing or sitting quietly in the early sunshine. The ravages of foot-and-mouth were still a bad memory, ’specially as ours was a contiguous cull, none of our cows had caught the disease. But things were looking up. We’d gone ahead with re-stocking and our new calves were a sign of hope. Life with Elin had taken on a new and more hopeful turn as well.

When she returned to England I arranged for Elin to stay in my apartment till she found somewhere of her own. I’d been renting it out since the election defeat and it happened to be empty.

I met her at Gatwick on a dull February morning. She greeted me, smiling, the old buoyant Elin. At her insistence we stopped at a service station before the M25. ‘I must boost my caffeine levels or I’ll wilt.’

As we drank cappuccino and caught up on news I realised the old attraction was still there – we could spark off one another, teasing, punning, laughing. But there was something else on my side. I am in love with her, I thought. Did she feel the same for me? It was hard to tell. Elin was her usual animated self despite jet lag; we were friends with a long history. Then, in the midst of swapping stories, we glanced at each other and something like an electric charge passed between us. For a moment we stopped talking, then struggled to pick up the conversation again. But everything had changed. Leaving the café I reached for her hand and we shared a smile of recognition.

‘I’ve missed you, Ben,’ she said. ‘I hadn’t realised how much till now.’

It took time to come to terms with the realisation that we were more than friends. We had to adjust to the changes in each other. Elin had become more thoughtful – ‘Tony was right. I needed to learn tact. I hope I’m beginning to.’ The total loss of her Welsh accent was disconcerting – it had always been part of her. Somehow I’d not noticed that in Singapore. And Karin’s death hadn’t just given me grey hairs; that and the election defeat had turned my life upside down. I hoped I was a wiser, more tolerant person as a result.

I took her out to dinner that night.

‘Does every tenant get this treatment?’ she asked, teasing.

‘No.’ I smiled across at her. ‘Special attention limited to Welsh redheads back from Singapore who must be partners in a law firm and have a first class degree.’

‘Very limited.’ She laughed.

Afterwards we talked late into the night despite the fact that she’d been awake for hours. ‘Where do we go from here?’ we asked ourselves.

‘A nice, romantic friendship? No strings?’ Elin suggested.

‘Fine. See where it takes us,’ I agreed, hoping it would take us to marriage in time.

‘And slowly,’ she added, ‘no need to rush.’

By then I had more time to socialise, with Jem, Izzie’s husband, managing the farm. But Elin was now her firm’s Senior Training Partner and busier than ever. We met as often as we could. We spent a weekend in Dublin, a holiday in my sister’s villa on the Algarve, a week in Edinburgh and had various outings in London. But Elin spent just one weekend with me in Cheshire before foot-and-mouth forced us apart for months. She kept me sane then with her phone calls and witty e-mails, pulling me out of the depression caused by the loss of our sheep flock and pedigree dairy herd.

Soon friends and family were seeing us as a couple. We could go weeks without meeting but phoned or e-mailed most days and often knew each other’s thoughts without needing to voice them. ‘Years of practice arguing,’ Elin joked.

We spent Christmas 2002 with the family at the farm. Elin had hoped to visit her people in North Wales while she was with us but the whole household came down with ‘flu and she couldn’t go. Instead we spent a relaxed convalescence by the fire with the dogs at our feet. We listened to CDs and Radio 4 and worked through a pile of detective fiction and crosswords while the younger generation recovered to loud music and TV soaps at the other end of the house. Despite our coughs and colds it was one of the most pleasant Christmases I could remember, certainly the best since Karin died. I began to think that if we could cope with one another when we were scratchy and convalescent we could surely consider being together on a permanent basis. But Elin’s work was based in London. How might our lives fit?

We didn’t discuss marriage. I wasn’t sure how Elin would respond. We’d shared a hotel room once when late bookings left us no choice, but having made clear my disapproval of Jem and Izzie sleeping together before their wedding, I wasn’t about to break my own rules. We set our own boundaries and kept within them out of respect for each other, though it wasn’t always easy.

After Christmas Elin hit a busy stretch when the pressure of work seemed relentless. Her only trip North in three months was to share a balloon flight she’d bought for my birthday. We drifted over Dovedale and the Roaches one glorious May evening and came down in a quiet field just before sunset.

‘We must have more time together,’ we promised ourselves and agreed to make it a priority.

But it didn’t work out. We’d arrange a weekend and Elin would phone at the last minute to cancel. I’d stay with her and she’d be so busy we’d hardly have time to talk. She altered arrangements on the flimsiest excuses yet rang at once if I didn’t keep in touch. I didn’t want to pressure her. I knew the stresses of her job, how she was anxious to hold on to her position with younger lawyers below her pressing for promotion. But I began to wonder if there was more to her elusiveness than a heavy case load. Was she trying to tell me she’d had enough?

The next time she was at the farm, I tackled her about it. We were walking the fields, the day she was due to leave.

‘Is everything all right?’ I asked. ‘Work and so on?’

‘Mmm. Busy but it always is.’ She was watching rabbits by the hedge, her eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun.

I was wishing I’d brought my shotgun. ‘You seem run into the ground. Isn’t there anything you can do to cut down?’

‘I’m fine.’ She kicked a clod of earth.

‘Not changed your mind about making more time for each other?’

We walked the next hundred yards in silence, Elin frowning. Then she said, ‘I’m feeling pushed, that’s all. There’s a lot to do.’ But she didn’t sound convinced or convincing.

I was confused. She was warm and demonstrative one moment, elusive and distant the next. Elin was becoming impossible to pin down. I wondered where we were heading. We seemed stuck in some kind of trough.

‘Come and see how the calves have grown,’ I suggested on the way back.

She laughed and took my hand. ‘Is this pet therapy or something?’

‘No, but animals keep their own counsel.’ Living close by, Jem or Ismene could walk into the farmhouse any time.

Scratching the head of the youngest heifer, Elin admitted, ‘I can’t hide, can I? You know what I’m thinking before I know it myself.’ She looked at me then away. ‘Work is busy but I realise I’ve let it become the excuse for not meeting. I don’t know why. It’s not what I want, deep down. I wish I could explain.’

‘Try,’ I prompted.

She squeezed my hand. ‘I think it’s because I’ve not been close to anyone for so long. I’m finding it hard to adjust. It’s not your fault, Ben, it’s me.’

‘Would you like me to back off? Ease the pressure?’

‘Definitely not.’ She glared at me. ‘But something changed at Christmas didn’t it?’ Her voice softened. ‘We’re closer. I’m not used to it. If we go on like this…’ She shook her head. ‘Please stick with me, Ben. I’m trying to work it out. The last thing I want is to lose you.’

‘I’ll stick as long as you like. If that’s what you really want.’

It came to me that Elin was afraid. Of commitment? Of close relationships? Of love? It was unexpected in someone so confident and strong. What lay behind it, I wondered.

Packing her car to return to London, she paused. ‘Ben, promise you’ll pull me up if I start being elusive.’

‘So long as you promise not to explode.’

She grinned. ‘I’ll try not to. Though I can be combustible at times, as you know.’

‘I’ll dig myself a bunker.’

Afterwards I mulled over what she’d said. I knew from the odd remark that she’d never been close to her parents. I knew about her broken engagement years before and the baby she’d had adopted. What was the matter and how could I help?

Thinking it over on one of my morning walks I remembered an incident from childhood. Before I went away to school, a stray cat came to the farm, dragging a paw. Eager to make it better, I chased it round the yard till it climbed on top of the straw bales in the barn and sat spitting and glaring.

‘That’s not the way,’ my mother said when I ran indoors, upset. ‘You have to be patient. Watch.’

She left a saucer of sardines and a saucer of milk in the barn. Next day both were clean. We put food out every day and the cat took it. Gradually we moved the saucers nearer the house and in a fortnight we could get close enough to tend the cat’s paw and take it to the vet. He became a loved pet – Barney, the barn cat.

I didn’t think Elin would be flattered to know I compared her with a limping stray cat, but similar patience might help the situation, I reasoned. I tried not to crowd her but made sure she knew I wasn’t going to give up in a hurry. I didn’t budge when she played ‘go away, closer’ and challenged her when it was clear she was avoiding me. She could spit and glare like Barney. I could withdraw, confused. But our love, friendship and sense of humour held us together when we got it wrong. In spite of the difficulties – perhaps because of them – we were gradually moving towards a more settled relationship.

We saw each other regularly as far as our commitments allowed, spending weekends in London but mostly at the farm since Elin found it restful here after what she called the ‘hectivity’ of the office. ‘You really are like an old married couple,’ Izzie said once, finding us asleep on the sofa one Sunday afternoon with various bits of The Sunday Times and Observer around us on the floor and the dogs snoring gently by the fire. I couldn’t imagine life without Elin. I knew one day I’d ask her to marry me. At the right time.

But what had made her so insecure?

‘My father told me I was rubbish,’ she said once, ‘a misfit. I spoilt everything.’

‘That was rubbish,’ I said at once. ‘You’re a very attractive woman, intelligent, lively and fun. And you have the most beautiful eyes.’ Then the meaning of her words sank in. ‘Surely he wasn’t serious? What on earth was he thinking of?’

‘It’s not worth discussing.’ She shrugged it off, clamming up as she always does when her parents are mentioned. ‘And flattery will get you everywhere, Ben Palmer.’ She smiled and kissed me then changed the subject. But there was sadness in her eyes.

Was her father the problem? If so I wished I could have wrung his neck. I thought of Lara and Ismene. I’d done my best to assure them that they were special and loved, to make them feel good about themselves. When they’d got above themselves as teenagers, I was tempted to think I’d overdone it, but that was far better than what Elin’s father seemed to have done to her.

I decided to find out more. I’d spoken to Gareth once on the phone. When we eventually met, I thought, I’d ask about their father and what their home life had been like. But before I could talk to him, Gareth died.

I was sorry to have missed my chance of seeing him. I’d always felt I’d understand Elin better if I met her brother and I’d wanted to meet him for himself. Elin was always singing his praises. I hoped I’d see his family one day, though that was up to Elin.

I met Ismene in the yard, going to saddle her horse. ‘You’re seeing Elin today aren’t you?’ she said.

‘Yes. We’re meeting at Delamere.’

‘Give her my love, I’m really sorry about her brother.’

‘I will.’ I looked at my watch, put the dogs in their run and went into the house. Two hours and Elin and I would be together. I decided to spend an hour form-filling in the study to make the time pass more quickly.

She was waiting for me at the car park entrance, standing, arms folded, her eyes on the road. Her face lit up as she saw me arrive and she came over to where I parked the Volvo.

‘Ben, it’s good to see you.’ Her voice was even but she looked tired about the eyes.

I hugged her and she shed a tear before pulling away. ‘Don’t, love, I can’t let go. Not yet.’ But she held my hand as we walked to the garden.

‘I thought we’d eat outside. Enjoy the view. And it’ll be quieter out here.’

We chose a table where we could sit side by side and look across fields to the forest.

‘So how was it really?’ I asked when we’d finished ordering.

‘Okay. You don’t think about death do you? Not till it happens to someone close.’

‘I know.’

‘Of course you do. I don’t want to re-open old wounds.’

‘If it helps, there is healing. In time.’

She nodded, searched in her bag for cigarettes and lit one. I hadn’t the heart to remind her she’d promised to give them up. ‘Two days ago I was painting a rosy picture of my job to one of my old teachers. It wasn’t untrue but when something like this happens it feels so unimportant. I feel my foundations have been rocked.’ She spread out her hands.

‘And the family?’

‘Stunned of course. And I’m not sure I haven’t made things worse by being there. It’s hard to stay in that house, ’specially without Gareth.’ She wavered then went on. ‘I’m like a cat on hot coals there. If I’d got to know them before it wouldn’t be so bad. But we’re complete strangers trying to cope with each other plus a bereavement. Lily, Gareth’s widow, is an exceptional person. I realise that now. I’ve not been fair to her over the years.’ She looked out across the forest and gave a small sigh. ‘Whether that can be repaired or not…’ Her words tailed off.

‘You’ve never said much about your family.’

‘No. I’ve spent most of my life running away from them, except Gareth. We went through a lot together when we were young…’ She stopped speaking suddenly and I put my arm round her. ‘You are allowed to cry, you know. It’s not forbidden. You don’t have to be the tough guy all the time.’

‘I know.’ She shook her head and smiled apologetically. ‘But I’m not good at it. Years of training I suppose.’ And wiped away a tear.

She tried her best to eat but wasn’t succeeding. ‘Would you like my meat?’ she asked, pushing her plate towards me.

‘Are you sure you don’t want it? I’ll get fat.’ But I took her lamb shank onto my plate. I hate to see good meat going to waste, especially when some farmer’s gone to all the trouble of raising it.

‘I’ve been good all week.’ She watched me. ‘I’m even cooking for the family tonight. How’s that for dedication?’

‘Yours or theirs?’ I teased.

‘Theirs of course.’ But she sounded tired.

I wanted to kidnap her and take her home. ‘Stop over on the way back. Have a rest, recharge your batteries.’

Her eyes brightened. ‘I’d love to. But I’m meeting a client on Thursday and the paperwork’s in the office. Besides, I haven’t got much leave in hand. I’ve overstayed as it is.’

She changed tack abruptly. ‘There is one thing I haven’t mentioned. I’d almost forgotten. The day Gareth died, before I heard, a friend of Tony’s rang. He wants to start a small firm offering to run in-house courses. There’s a good market for them with all this new legislation coming out. He’s asked if I’d like to go in with them. I can’t get my head round it at the moment. It’s flattering to be approached and I’ve been unsettled as you know. But is it too great a risk? Do I want to play safe or is this the challenge I’ve been waiting for?’

‘That depends on you,’ I said. ‘Of course, if we were married the risk might be lessened. I could support you if things went pear-shaped. And you could put all your millions and jewels in my name. Then if you went bankrupt they’d be safe.’

‘Ben!’ She sounded shocked. ‘I wouldn’t dream of expecting you to underwrite my risks.’ She laughed suddenly. ‘Idiot. What jewels? What millions?’

Then the full meaning of what I’d said hit her. ‘You can’t be serious.’ She turned to me, amusement in her eyes.

‘Can’t I? What do you think?’ I reached for her hand. ‘Elin, don’t you think we ought to consider it seriously – being together for good? Marriage even?’

‘Ben, you silly old romantic.’ But her fingers grasped mine.

‘I am serious,’ I went on, ‘though I didn’t mean to mention it now nor quite like that. I should have waited till you’d had time to recover from Gareth.’

Elin looked from me to the distant view, then back again. ‘I’m not sure I see myself as marriage material, Ben. I don’t know if I’m up to that sort of commitment.’

She grinned. ‘What would you want me to do? Leave London and become a farmer’s wife? Make jam for the WI? Dispense broth to the tenants?’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s not a job I’m offering.’

Her face grew thoughtful. ‘I know.’

‘Don’t answer yet, love,’ I said quickly. ‘Bereavement’s not the time for decisions. As I said I shouldn’t have asked now. But it’s been in my mind for some while.’

‘I can’t say I hadn’t suspected this would happen some day. But do we know what it might mean? For either of us? Do you really want an insomniac workaholic for a wife?’

‘We could always have separate bedrooms if you felt the need for nocturnal prowling.’

‘We could keep separate houses.’ She laughed then stopped suddenly and said with a hint of the old asperity, ‘This isn’t a rescue package by any chance? Because if it is, I refuse point blank.’

‘Rescue? From what?’

‘Work. The firm. Difficult decisions.’

‘Good God no. You’re not a washed up has-been. You’ve got so much to offer. But maybe you need to change direction, try something new.’

‘And this could be it?’ The usual teasing grin. ‘Company lawyer meets country landowner and lives happily ever after.’

‘Ex-Welsh Nationalist and ex-Tory MP. A marriage of opposites.’

‘A loose partnership, perhaps.’

‘A lawful union.’

‘A professional association.’

‘We could run our own consultancy. Pritchard and Palmer. Anything legal considered.’

We looked at each other and laughed. Whatever happened we would always belong together. Somehow.