Chapter 1

LUCKY MAN

A thin layer of mist wreathed the meadows all the way down to the reeds that traced the meandering path of the river. In the early morning light, the few trees that jutted from that paleness seemed iron black, leafless now that the season had changed. This had all been heath until a few years back, from Corfe to the South Deep. Now the sea had encroached upon those ancient fields, covering stretches of the lowlands to a depth of several feet.

Jake stood there on a ridge of higher ground, surveying the scene, his shotgun tucked beneath his arm. He was dressed for the season in a thick sheepskin coat and warm britches, a hunter’s cap and black waders. Close by stood his son, Peter, fourteen and the image of his father, down to the gun beneath his arm. Beside him was Boy, their eight-year-old border collie, his coat sleek and black, his sharp eyes and ears taking in every movement.

A cuckoo called; possibly the last of the year. For a moment after there was silence, then a slushing noise and the sound of beating wings, a heavy sound in the early morning air. As they watched, the bird flew up. Jake’s eyes followed its path, then settled on the ruins of the old cottage.

Until six years back this had been a busy, bustling place. Jed Cooper and his family had lived here. A cheerful man, Jed had shared the cottage with his equally cheerful wife, Judy, and their twin boys, Charlie and John, who had been Peter’s age. Only then the sickness had come and they’d been swept away, along with scores of others in the surrounding villages. Last year the roof had fallen in and now the walls were crumbling, nature reclaiming the building, its damp brickwork sinking back into the earth.

Jake looked down and sighed. At his back, a mile to the west, the land climbed steeply to a ridge. There, its ruined keep outlined against the sky, was the castle. Almost a thousand years it had stood. When the Normans came, they’d built it to subdue the locals and place their mark upon the land. Later, in the years of the Civil War, it had been partially demolished, yet still it dominated the skyline, its ruined towers like slabs of living history.

Boy tensed. Peter looked down at him and smiled.

‘Seek ’em, Boy! Go chase ’em out!’

The dog was off at once, a streak of darkness cutting through the mist. Jake raised his gun. Beside him, Peter did the same, the two of them waiting patiently as Boy turned the game towards them.

Two gunshots echoed across the meadows, barely a pause between them. Boy slowed then barked, settling beside one of the fallen rabbits.

‘Good lad,’ Jake said, looking to his son and smiling.

They walked across, Peter going straight to Boy; kneeling down to ruffle his neck and hug him close, telling him again and again what a good boy he’d been.

Jake stooped, once, then a second time, to lift the dead rabbits and slip them into the big leather satchel at his side. He straightened up. The gunshots would have frightened off any other game, but they had plenty of time. The fields beyond the river were pocked with rabbit holes.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes, lad?’

‘D’you think it’ll ever come back?’

Jake thought about it a moment. ‘I dunno… It’s just… if it were coming back, then I guess it would have by now. Only…’

‘Only?’

Jake looked down at the dog. Boy enjoyed being petted. His eyes looked back at Peter adoringly, his tail wagging eagerly.

Only nothing. But he didn’t say that. It was gone, that old world. Never to return. And good riddance. Only Peter, who had never known it, was fascinated.

‘Well?’ Peter insisted, getting back to his feet.

Jake laughed. ‘You’d have hated it.’

‘Why? I mean… all that great stuff you had.’

They had this conversation often, and as so often happened it led nowhere. The Past – the great computer age – was dead, and most of the ‘great stuff’ with it. All that was left were the husks.

‘Come,’ Jake said, walking on, not letting his mood be affected by such talk. ‘What’s gone is gone, lad. It’s no good grieving over it.’

‘But Dad…’

A look, a raised eyebrow, and Peter fell silent.

‘Come, Boy,’ he said, standing, shouldering his gun.

They paused at the ruins, baring their heads, paying their respects, then walked on. Cooper and his family were buried in the churchyard. Long buried now, along with the rest of those who had died that winter. Six years it had been. Only it didn’t seem that long. To Jake it seemed like yesterday.

And there too was another truth. That back in the old days they would have survived. Most of them, anyway, if not all. A jab of something and a week in bed and they’d have been right as rain.

Only these weren’t the old days.

Jake pushed the thought away, then looked to his son once more.

‘Come, lad. Let’s go bag some more before breakfast.’

Two hours had passed and they had just decided to turn back, when Jake spotted the strangers, some distance off to the north-west, out on the Ware-ham Road.

His satchel was bulging with dead game. That, and the sight of strangers on the road made up Jake’s mind to leave. Now, before they were spotted.

There was an old barn, partway up the slope. There they hid, Jake perched in the gaping stone window, the Zeiss-style glasses – a pair of Bresser Hunters his father had bought more than fifty years before – to his eyes as he checked out the newcomers.

It was as he’d thought. They were refugees. Just a small party, eight strong. Five adults and three children, all of their worldly possessions either on their backs or on the sled one of them dragged along.

He moved from face to face, seeing the tiredness there, the fear. They were a peculiarly shabby lot, with an emaciated, almost haunted look. As far as Jake could make out, a small, fussy little man was leading them; stocky and balding, he never seemed to stop talking. Alongside him was a much taller woman. She was a pale, consumptive-looking creature with lank hair and a pair of broken spectacles that gave her a slight academic air. There were two other men – nondescript fellows with shaven heads and the kind of faces you instantly forgot, they were so generic. Working men, Jake thought, seeing those faces. At least, they would have been, once upon a time. But these two were barely into their thirties. They’d have been ten at most when things fell apart.

The last of the adults – another woman – was perhaps the most interesting, and he took his time, studying her. She didn’t seem part of this party. She had a distracted air to her and an uncertainty – a lack of ease – that suggested she had joined them somewhere along the way. For protection, maybe. The look of her – the quality of her clothes – did not go with the others. And there was one other thing. She was pretty.

Jake switched his attention to the children. The eldest was a tall, spindly boy of adolescent age. The clothes he was wearing looked thin and ragged. He seemed to hug himself against the morning’s chill. Most noticeable, however, were his eyes – pale eyes that were dark-rimmed and fearful, like he suffered from bad dreams.

His siblings, if that was what they were – a boy and a girl, one perhaps five and the other eight or nine – shared the same, dispirited look.

It made him wonder just how long they had been on the road. Three days? Four? Had they eaten in all that time? Were they hungry?

They certainly looked hungry. Hungry and afraid. As always, something in him responded to their plight and wanted to help; only he couldn’t. He had learned that lesson long ago – not to trust anyone in these untrustworthy times. Not strangers, anyway.

Even so…

Jake focused again on the little man, the fussy one, trying to get some clue to it all. A lot of people made the journey west. He’d been told that life was a lot better out here. Only this party didn’t seem to be driven by the desire for a better life. No. They looked as if they had been chased out.

Jake lowered the glasses. ‘They’re no threat,’ he whispered. ‘But let’s get back anyway and warn the others, just in case.’

Peter nodded, then turned to Boy. Boy had been laying there, silent, patient; now he jumped up, eager again.

Peter leaned in close, speaking in a whisper to the dog. ‘Hush now, Boy. We’re going home, right?’

Normally Boy would have given off a bark – an eager response – but Peter had trained him well. When he used that hushed voice, Boy was to keep quiet.

Jake, looking on, smiled. He was a lovely dog. One of the best. He hadn’t known how good it was to have a dog until they’d had him. He put out his hand and Boy came across at once, nuzzling him, licking his fingers and giving off the faintest whine.

‘Come…’

They moved quickly, purposefully, up the steep grassy slope and along the Ridgeway, the castle – a massive thing of fallen tawny stone, huge chunks of which were embedded in the grassy hillside – directly ahead. Beyond it, beyond the broad green slope of the castle’s enclosed lower field, nestling in the curve of the valley, was Corfe itself. A V-shaped spill of grey-brown two-storey cottages that hugged both arms of the forking road, the parish church with its square tower thrusting up from amidst that great sprawl. It was a sight Jake never tired of, and as always he paused, to take it in, sensing a connection that was beyond his own lifetime. For some reason this was his place and he had come here out of instinct when it had all gone wrong. Here and nowhere else. Because here was where he belonged.

Some of the locals were at the Bankes Arms Hotel already, despite the early hour, unloading carts and carrying bits and pieces through to the gar -den at the back of the big coaching inn. They were preparing for the evening ahead, it being their custom, once a month, to hold a gathering of all the surrounding villages. It was a celebration – of life and friendship, and of the Past, of the quite astonishing fact that any of them had survived these past twenty or so years.

Jake’s best friend, Tom Hubbard, was there, with his youngest daughter Meg, who was Peter’s age. While Peter ran across to talk to her, Boy at his heels, Jake sidled over to his old friend.

Tom met his eyes. ‘Somethin’ up?’

Tom spoke with the same Dorset dialect as Jake’s son, Peter, and even as he answered him, Jake was conscious at some level of the lack of that same richness in his own voice. He had been here for more than twenty years, but he was still, in some important way, an outsider. This place, home as it was to him now, was still foreign parts.

‘Strangers… on the old Wareham Road. No threat, I’d judge – they’re a bit of a ragtag assortment – but we ought to send a warning round.’

Tom nodded, then turned and whistled through his teeth. ‘Alec! Young Billy!’

Two young heads appeared from behind the cart. ‘Yeah?’

‘Leave that for now. There’s strangers on the Wareham Road. Best put out a warnin’ to Stowborough and Furzebrook… oh, and East Holme while you’re at it.’

He turned to Jake again. ‘How many was it, Jake?’

‘Just the eight. Three men, two women and three kids. It’s just that they looked hungry, and hunger makes thieves of us all.’

Tom turned and gestured to the two youngsters, who ran off at once. He turned back, then nodded towards the bulging satchel.

‘It’s a wonder there’s any rabbits left, what with you and the lad.’

Jake grinned. ‘Thought I’d bag a dozen or so for the do tonight.’

‘An’ the rest?’

But it didn’t need to be said. Tom knew who Jake had bagged them for. Old Ma Brogan, down on the East Orchard. If Jake hadn’t brought her a brace of rabbits every now and then she’d never have tasted meat at all, now that her son had run off.

‘How’s Mary?’

Tom looked up again. ‘She’s fine. Lookin’ forward to tonight. Like a bloody teenage girl, she gets. Can’t get no sense out of her or our eldest pair. You’d think it were Christmas.’

The two men laughed, then fell silent. There were shadows over everything they said these days.

They were living on borrowed time and they both knew it. But life had to be lived, not feared. You had to get on with things, no matter what was headed your way. And sometimes that was enough. Only it made it hard to plan anything, hard to look beyond the immediacy of things, and that, so the more astute of them realized, robbed the experience of something precious. When you didn’t have a future, what did you have?

Jake turned, taking it all in – the castle, the village, all of it unchanged for centuries – and felt a shiver pass through him. It was like living in a vacuum some days. There was Peter, of course, and his friends, but what was it all for? What was the point if it could all be swept aside in an instant?

He patted the bulging satchel, conscious of the smell of the dead creatures which hung upon him.

‘Anyway… I’d best deliver these.’

Tom smiled. ‘You know what? I’m glad it happened… cos if it hadn’t…’

He reached out, holding Jake’s arm.

It wasn’t like Tom to comment on the past. Nor was it like him to be quite so tactile.

‘You all ready for tomorrow?’

‘Packed up and ready to go.’

‘Good.’

Jake walked away. He ducked through the narrow entrance, stooping beneath the low-silled door and out into the garden. Stepping back into the sunlight, he called out to the little group of wives who were gathered around the big trestle table halfway up the grass.

‘Bessie… Mell… who wants the job of skinning these little fellas?’

There was laughter and for a moment the shadow passed. But walking home afterwards with Peter at his side and Boy trailing them, he saw Tom’s face again, saw something there behind the eyes, and wondered what it was.

Old Ma Brogan was working in her vegetable garden when Jake came calling.

Straightening her thin, age-worn frame, she raised a hand to shield her eyes, straining to see who it was. Stray wisps of long grey hair lay across her deeply-lined face. There was mud on her boots and on the hem of her long, green velvet skirt. Elegance gone to seed, Jake thought, studying her a moment before he unlatched the gate and stepped through.

‘It’s all right, Mother. It’s only me.’

‘Ah, Jake, my love. Come give me a kiss. Been a while.’

He went across and gave her a hug and a kiss, then stepped back, admiring her handiwork. For a woman in her eighties she was something else. Frail she might have been, but there was no sign of that frailty in her vegetable garden. Nothing but straight, healthy rows of carrots and beans. The last of the season.

‘I’ve brought you some conies, Ma. Skinned ’em and prepared ’em, I have. Where d’you want me to put ’em?’

A smile beamed out from that ancient face. It made him realize how beautiful she must have been as a young woman.

‘Ah, you’re a good boy to me, Jake Reed. A better son than that good-for-nothing boy of mine.’

‘Now, Ma… he had his reasons.’

‘Reasons!’ She spat the word out contemptuously. ‘You’re too kind to him by half. Let his cock rule him, more’s the truth!’

Jake smiled. He was used to Ma Brogan’s foul mouth. Besides, it was true. Her son, Billy, had been infatuated with a girl, and she only half his age. ‘Cock-struck’ was how Ma Brogan had termed it at the time, and so he was. When she left, he went after her, leaving his aged mother to fend for herself. It was cruel, but it was also life.

‘So… where d’you want these?’

‘Through here,’ she said, turning and leading the way along the brickwork path towards the back door. ‘You goin’ along tonight, lad?’

‘I am.’ And he smiled again as he said it. He liked being called ‘lad’, as if he were Peter’s age again. And he liked being mothered. More than that, he liked Ma Brogan’s irreverent approach to life. Some didn’t, but he did.

In the kitchen doorway she half turned, looking to him. ‘You want a brew, boy?’

‘I’d love one, Ma. If you’re having one.’

‘I am. Now put those conies down on the side, then take a seat and rest your legs while you tell me all the latest gossip.’

Which is precisely what he did for the next hour, sat there in that low-ceilinged, heavily-shadowed kitchen, among the overflowing shelves and the clutter.

Back in the old days he might have scorned it as a waste of time, but now he knew. This was what life was for. Not for accumulating wealth, nor making an impression. It was for this. The old lady – Margaret, she insisted, flirting with him – made him laugh. Not only that, but she made him think, and if she’d been thirty years younger he might even have slept with her.

He knew a great deal about her life, about her work as a painter and as a potter, and the children she had raised, never to see again. But aspects of her history were still a mystery to him, even after coming here these past twelve months.

‘Margaret?’

‘Yes, my love?’

‘Can I ask you something deeply personal?’

She turned to face him. ‘You may.’

‘How many lovers did you have?’

Her smile broadened, stretching the thin parchment of her skin. ‘You cheeky boy. That is personal. But as it’s you…’

She hesitated, searching her memory, the smile fading then returning as she remembered something, or someone. ‘My god, it’s years since I thought about it…’ She gave a little shrug, then. ‘Twenty? Thirty, maybe.’

Jake feigned shocked surprise, which made her laugh.

‘You wanted an honest answer, you got one.’

‘For which I thank you. But now I want to know something else. Who was the love of your life?’

She stared back at him and for an instant, her eyes were still young in that otherwise ancient face. It made him think of the old saying – that the eyes were the windows of the soul.

‘What’s got into you today, my boy?’

‘I don’t know… It’s just that I’ve been missing her these past few days.’

‘Ah…’

A faint, wistful smile had come to her lips. She met his eyes again.

‘His name was Matthew. Mattie, I called him. My beautiful Mattie. Ah, he could stoke the fires, that one.’

‘Was he your husband?’

‘Good Lord, no! My husband, hah! I had three husbands and a fat lot of good any of them were, especially the last! First he ran off, and then his son!’ She gave a snort of exasperation, then, after a long breath and more calmly she said, ‘No, my love… Mattie was my secret. We’d meet as often as we could, in his room, sometimes, but more often in hotels. Sixteen years younger than me, he was, and I knew it couldn’t last, only…’

Jake frowned, seeing how deep the pain still was, and felt a moment’s regret at having raised the subject. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I…’

‘No… don’t be. It wasn’t like that, you see. He didn’t leave me. Or rather, he did, but not through choice. He said he’d love me forever. But then he died. In a car crash. It was awful. I didn’t know what to do with myself. His family didn’t know, you see, and if they had they wouldn’t have approved. But the funeral… Oh, it was terrible, Jake. I couldn’t stop crying. And no one there knew me. No one even bothered to ask who it was sitting there at the back of the church sobbing her heart out. No one.’

For a moment he felt like holding her, comforting her for what was clearly still an unhealed wound, even after all these years.

‘How old was he?’

She wiped at her eyes. ‘Twenty-six.’

Jake caught his breath. It was the same age he had been when it had all come crashing down.

‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.’

She reached out and touched his arm.‘No. No, you should. I like talking about the past, even if it hurts. Even if…’

She shook her head.

‘What?’ he asked gently.

‘Oh, it’s nothing, Jake. Just that some days it feels like some dreadful illusion. That none of it really happened and I imagined it all. Dreamed it.’

He nodded, understanding. It was exactly how he felt some days. How most of them probably felt, those who had survived the world coming apart at the seams. Simply to be here now seemed something of a miracle.

Jake got to his feet.

‘You got to go?’

He nodded. ‘I’ve got a lot to do before tonight. You goin’ along?’

She laughed. ‘Not me, boy. My old bones aren’t up to it any more. The walk there would do for me.’

‘You sure I couldn’t come get you? You could sit on the cart…’

‘It’s very kind, my love, but no. You need to enjoy yourself, and how could you do that if you had to keep an eye on me, eh?’

‘But Ma…’

‘Margaret.’ Her voice had an insistent tone to it. ‘And no. I’ll be fine.’

Jake kissed her, held her to him a moment, then quickly hurried away, before he saw the tears welling in her eyes. But halfway up the long slope that led to Church Knowle, he turned and looked back, noting how the cottage seemed embedded in the landscape, the thatched roof the same brown as the surrounding fields.

He turned away. What he’d said to her was true. He had been thinking about Anne a lot these past few days, and he felt he needed to do something about it. As it was he felt haunted, and as a rational man he felt uncomfortable with that.

I should go see her. Talk to her. Yes. But first he’d pack, ready for tomorrow.

The farmhouse was a long, low building, set back off the main street, the grey of its slate roof peppered with small patches of green and orange. It was a sturdy house, an unfussy house, functional in a way so many of the local houses weren’t. They were more picturesque, more pretty, but Jake had chosen well. It was warm in the winter and the roof never leaked. And besides, it had cost him nothing.

The front door was unlocked. It was never locked. Not these days. If you couldn’t trust your neighbours, then who could you trust? Jake stepped inside, into deep shadow. The kitchen was at the back, overlooking the yard, the living room to the left. Both bedrooms were upstairs.

He went through. There were long shelves both sides of the hallway, crowded floor to ceiling with books. Like the house, he had ‘inherited’ them, and again, like the house, he had come to appreciate with every passing year just how carefully they had been chosen.

The kitchen was neat and clean. The skinned and washed rabbits that the women had prepared had been hung up in the larder. Fresh wood had been cut and stacked. The oak table had been wiped, the breakfast things washed up and put away.

Jake smiled. Peter was a good boy. A dependable boy. He worked hard and never complained.

He crossed the room, standing there a moment at the sink, looking out through the long window, wondering where Peter was. Only he knew where he was. He turned and saw at once that the bucket was missing from the hook.

Jake washed his hands and dried them, then stepped out, into the yard. From there he had a view down the lane towards the well. He could hear the pigs snuffling in the shed at his back, the chickens restlessly clucking. Bessie, their Jersey, was in the barn nearby, sleeping no doubt.

Jake shielded his eyes to look.

Peter was sat on the broad ledge of the well, Meg beside him. They were holding hands, staring at each other in that lovesick fashion Jake had noticed of late. Boy lay nearby, one eye open, looking out for his master.

Again Jake smiled. In that too they were lucky. To have met such people as the Hubbards, here at the end of things.

Normally he would have left them on their own for a bit, but there was much to do. And besides, there would be plenty of time later on for them to gaze adoringly at each other.

He walked down the sloping lane towards them, his booted feet crunching on the gravel. Hearing it, their hands fell apart. Snatching up her bucket, Meg hurried away, giving Jake a smile as she went.

Embarrassed, Peter jumped down. He lifted his own bucket and began to walk towards his father, Boy jumping up to follow.

Jake smiled. ‘It’s okay, you know… holding hands. You can hold hands. It is allowed.’

Peter didn’t look at him. He was blushing now. But Jake, studying his son, saw how tall he’d grown, how close he was to being a man.

How his mother would have loved to have seen that.

They were at the gate now. Jake watched as Peter expertly nudged the old latch and pushed through, the heavy bucket swaying in his hand.

‘You know what, lad?’

‘What?’

‘I thought we’d go see your mum, later. Once everything’s done.’

The young boy turned, meeting his eyes. ‘You all right, Dad?’

Jake looked away. It was his turn to be embarrassed. ‘I’m fine…’

‘Yeah…?’

‘Yeah…’ Only he didn’t have to say. Peter was watching him now, a perfect understanding in his eyes.

‘I’ll cut some flowers for her.’

‘That’d be nice.’

Only what he felt at that moment couldn’t be contained in words. To have been so lucky and unlucky. To have found her at all and then to have lost her. No. Sometimes words – even whole hallways full of words – were not enough.

St. Peter’s Church stood on a mound at the turn of the road, as it had since the early fourteenth century, a neat, solid-looking building of grey stone. Old as it was, it was merely a replacement for the old Saxon church after which the village – Church Knowle – had first been named. Priests had read the ancient services in Latin long before the great castle had been built a mile or so to the west, and there had been a rector resident since 1327. It was here that the locals gathered every week, not to sing hymns or say prayers like their ancestors, but simply to talk – to air grievances, seek help, to raise any problems they might have, and generally to keep things ‘ticking over’, as they liked to call it. Few among them were religious in any special way, yet they shared a feeling of connection to the land that was almost pagan in its intensity – a sense of belonging.

It was over there, on the far side of that lushly grassed space, near the back wall, that they had buried those who had died six years back. And it was there, now, that Jake and his son came, to put flowers down on the neatly-kept mound that was Anne’s grave.

Jake had carved the headstone himself from a solid slab of oak, fashioning it in the shape of a tree. It had taken him all of three months, but it was a fine piece of work, one of which he was immensely proud. Back in the old days he would have struggled to have finished such a task – things were so easy, so ‘throwaway’ back then – but this was something different. This was something meant, his own small monument against Time, and he had poured all of his feelings for her into the simple design. As for the words…

Jake gave the smallest shake of his head, thinking about it. He had never found anything quite so hard as choosing what to carve into that smoothly varnished surface. After all, what did you say? ‘Passed in her sleep’? No, because she hadn’t. She had been in torment until the last. It had been agony – sheer hell – to see her suffer all of that. So what then? How to express the utter totality of his loss, his grief? And there were Peter’s feelings to consider, too, for it was his mother who had been snatched from him so brutally. Jake had felt honour bound to make sure his son had his say. Because this mattered. How you honoured the dead, how you remembered them after they were gone, that mattered. He understood that now.

And so, between them, they had honed it down to the simplest of words. Words which might somehow prove a vessel into which all of their grief, all of their painful memories, might pour themselves:

‘Our darling girl. Missed beyond words.’

Jake knelt there a moment, his fingers tracing the hand-carved words. Then, taking the special scissors from his jacket pocket, he began to trim the grass.

He was just finishing, wiping the surface of the slab with a damp cloth, when he grew conscious of another presence close by. He turned, looking up into the sunlight. ‘Mary…?’

She stood there, staring past him at the headstone, a faint wistfulness in her expression. She was Anne’s sister, three years her elder, and as Jake looked at her he could see reminders of what he had lost in Mary’s face: her eyes; her long, dark, curling hair; in the very way she stood there, her weight on her left foot, her head slightly tilted. It was precisely how Anne had always stood.

She was holding a small spray of flowers. Lilacs. Anne’s favourites.

‘It never seems to get easier, does it?’

‘No... No, I…’

He left it unfinished. Then, realizing that he’d done all he’d come to do, he clambered up, brushing the grass clippings from his knees.

Mary spoke again, quieter this time. ‘You know… I always thought it would be me. I always expected her to tend my grave.’

‘Really?’ Yet even as he said it he saw the truth in it. Anne had always been the healthy one, the more vigorous of the two. Even if Mary had not already been Tom’s wife, he would have chosen Anne, had it come to it, purely for her vitality. She had possessed so much life. Yet it was Anne who had succumbed to the fever, not Mary.

‘Have they decided?’ he asked, changing the subject.

A smile lit her face. She knew without asking what he was referring to.

‘Far From The Madding Crowd. You know, the old version, with Alan Bates, Terence Stamp and Julie Christie.’

Once a month, as tonight, they would haul out the old generator, fill it with oil, and show a film. Something from the Past. ‘Who chose that?’

‘The women. We wanted something romantic for a change.’

He nodded to her and made to leave, calling Peter and Boy to him. But at the gate he looked back and saw her, kneeling by the grave now, talking to her sister as he so often did, holding the lilacs out to ‘show’ Anne, a strangely fragile love there in the muscles of her face.

So fragile, and yet so strong. Jake turned back, looking to his son, noting, as he so often did, how he too carried the familial genes.

‘I am the family face…’

‘Dad?’

Jake smiled. ‘Old words, boy. Just old words.’

Darkness had fallen. In the long, high-walled garden of the Bankes Arms Hotel, a massive bonfire cast its warm, flickering light over the crowded scene, bathing everything in an ever-changing cloak of gold and black.

Above the chug-chug-chug of the ancient, oil-powered generator, music played, struggling to make itself heard against the babble of a hundred voices.

Every one of the big bench tables was filled to overflowing. People had come from miles around, bringing their families. Relaxed now, their faces shining, they ate and drank and talked, while all about them their children ran and played, carefree and happy.

Jake and Peter were seated at the table closest to the generator, sharing it with Tom, Mary and their daughters, Cathy, Beth and Meg. Boy, as ever, lay hidden in the shadows beneath, his jet black eyes reflecting back the firelight. From time to time he would lick his chops, a faint whine escaping him as he sniffed the air, taking in the mouth-watering scent of roasting meat that, mixed with the strong burned-chemical odour of the generator, filled every breath.

The music was much louder where they sat, close by the speakers, but Jake didn’t mind that. Music – especially music from the old days – was his passion, one that he shared with Old Josh Palmer, the landlord’s father. Josh was in his eighties now, but he was still fit, still sprightly. He lived in the attic of the hotel, in two large rooms with sloping eaves that, apart from his bed and a small sink in one corner, were crammed floor to ceiling with his ‘collection’. It was offerings from that collection that they were listening to now, a collection that anyone would have been proud of, even back in the old days. In these latter days, after the Collapse, his boxes of ancient plastic-sleeved CDs and even older vinyl seemed an absolute treasure trove, most of it irreplaceable; things you’d never see, or ever dream to see, at market. Things that were old before Old Josh was born. Now they seemed even more precious, for these were the last remaining vestiges of an easier age. An age that had passed for good. That, but for this, Jake would never have guessed existed.

Right now they were playing one of his absolute favourites, ‘Erin Go Bragh’, its rapid, almost staccato acoustic guitar underpinning the delicious, broad Scots accent of its singer, Dick Gaughan. Jake leaned back, half-filled beer mug in hand, and closed his eyes briefly to listen to the flute that seemed to float out of the speakers, so sweet and high, mouthing the words to himself as he did.

As the song ended and he opened his eyes again, he saw, looking about him, how they were all watching him, suppressed laughter in every face. Seeing his surprised expression, there was an eruption of delighted laughter.

‘What?’

He looked to Tom for an explanation.

‘It’s just you, Jake. That look you have sometimes. Lost you are. Totally bloody lost.’

‘Yeah?’ He smiled and shrugged. ‘Well…’

But he wasn’t going to let it ruin his enjoyment. If the truth were told, he lived for these evenings, when the hot, scented air was filled with music. Annie had loved it too. Sitting there, he could imagine, sometimes, that she was beside him still.

In spirit, anyway, he thought, pushing the memory away. Yet as he did, so another song began, making him catch his breath.

‘Oh, well done, Josh…’

He looked across at Josh, seated by the controls of the old mixing desk and clapped exaggeratedly, making the old man grin toothlessly.

‘River Man’. Oh, how he loved this song. Loved the sweet, gently English voice of its singer, Nick Drake. Loved its understated lyric.

Above all, what got to him was the bittersweet poignancy of it. The idea of lilac time. Of a time free of all cares.

‘Dad?’

He turned, meeting his son’s eyes. ‘What, boy?’

‘These songs…’

‘What about them?’

‘It’s just…’

Peter shrugged. Jake knew his son didn’t have the same love of this music. Peter liked his music harder, heavier than this. More modern, too. Even so, Jake felt he ought to reward his son somehow. He’d been a real help lately. Fishing in his pocket, he brought out a handful of local coins, stamped with the simple standing stone motif of Wessex. Taking one, he handed it to Peter.

‘Go on… Go and ask Old Josh for a request. But nothing too outrageous, eh?’

Peter’s face lit up. Scrambling up, he ran across to where the old man sat, leaning in to shout into his ear.

Jake watched the boy a moment, warmed to the pit of his stomach by the sight. Sometimes what he felt for the boy surprised him.

Turning back, he found himself meeting Mary’s eyes. She had been watching him. He saw that instantly. But why?

The question must have been in his eyes, for she leaned towards him, laying her hand on his, and smiled.

‘I was just thinking… remembering when you first came here. You’ve changed, you know.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Beyond recognition.’

Jake looked away. Tom was watching him now too. Like he and Mary shared a secret. He sipped at his beer, then, seeing Peter returning, turned and called out to him. ‘What did you ask him for?’

Peter grinned. ‘You’ll see…’

‘Oh god…’

Peter slipped back into his seat, reaching down to pet Boy before meeting his father’s eyes again.

‘No, Dad… you’ll like it. Really.’

Jake was about to protest when the unmistakable opening bars began.

Hendrix! It was fucking Hendrix!

From all around, people were getting to their feet, taking up hunched, head down air guitar poses as ‘Voodoo Chile’ pounded from the speakers.

Jake looked to his son again and grinned. ‘Boy, I raised you extremely bloody well.’ And ignoring Peter’s disgusted look, he too got to his feet and started playing along. As the music faded, Jake opened his eyes again, to find Tom and Mary watching him again, their eyes delighted.

‘You enjoyed that, didn’t you?’ Tom said, getting up and gesturing to Jake to hand over his now empty glass.

‘I bloody well did.’

‘It’s good to see.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

Jake looked down. He knew what Tom was saying, beneath the words. He must have been hard to be with after Annie had died. His mood had been so dark, so… unremittingly morose. He had forgotten how to have fun. If it hadn’t been for Peter. Well… who knew what he’d have done? As it was, the pain lingered, but he could deal with it now.

As Tom went off to get the beers, he looked to Mary again. ‘Am I that fascinating?’

She smiled.

‘Well?’ he asked, when she didn’t answer. ‘Just that you seem to be watching me tonight.’

‘Do I?’ The smile broadened. ‘Just that it’s good to see you smiling again. I never thought…’

She stopped, her expression changing. A new song had begun. Another old folk song, its mood wistful this time. Jake didn’t recognize it, but it had a distinctly gaelic feel.

‘D’you want to dance?’

Her question surprised him. ‘I… don’t.’

‘You used to. With Annie.’

That too was different. Before now they had come to a kind of unspoken agreement not to talk about Annie and how things used to be. But that had changed, apparently.

‘Have you and Tom been talking?’

‘Talking? That’s what married couples do, surely?’

‘I mean about me.’

She shrugged, but there was a smile on her lips now. ‘You’re our best friend. Of course we talk about you.’

‘Yeah? So what have you been saying?’

He was conscious, suddenly, of the children listening in. From seeming bored, they were now attentive. Mary, too, seemed to suddenly become aware of it. Looking about her she shooed them all away.

‘Go on, go… This is adult talk.’

When they were gone, Boy trailing in their wake, Mary turned to him again.

‘So?’ he asked. ‘Why am I suddenly so interesting?’

‘You’ve always been interesting.’

He shook his head. ‘The truth.’

Mary looked down. It seemed to him that beyond her playful teasing she was steeling herself to say something. Only right then Tom returned, and Jake sensed that the moment had passed. He wasn’t sure why, or what it was about, maybe nothing, only it wasn’t how she usually was with him. She nor Tom.

‘Got it all ready for the morning, have you?’ Tom asked, handing Jake his beer.

Jake nodded, but he was staring thoughtfully at Mary.

‘Your wife…’ he began.

‘Is a very, very, very fine wife.’

Tom put his arm about her, hugging her to him.

‘Maybe… Only I sense she means to meddle in my life.’

‘Oh?’ Tom sounded surprised. ‘And how would she be a doin’ that?’

It had come to him, just a moment before. What she was doing.

‘I think she means to find Peter a new mother.’

Tom looked to Mary then back to Jake. He was smiling now. ‘Would that be so very bad, Jake? I mean… you need a woman in your bed.’

There. As blunt as that. ‘Do I?’

‘You know you do,’ Mary said; but she looked down as she said it and seemed to blush.

‘If I needed a good fuck…’

‘It’s not the same,’ she said, meeting his eyes defiantly.

No, he thought, thinking of Annie. It never was. But there was something odd going on here. He only had to look at Tom to see it. Tom had a secret, and he wasn’t a man to feel comfortable with secrets. Only Jake guessed Mary would have made him swear not to tell. Whatever it was.

Jake looked up, recognizing the song that was playing. It was Sandy Denny, ‘Who Knows Where The Time Goes?’.

He smiled, feeling a sweet sadness. Annie had always loved this song.

‘You’re a sweet woman, Mary Hubbard,’ he said, looking back at her. ‘But you must leave me be. I am as I am. If I loved your sister too much, then there’s no blame in that. I’m not ready yet, okay?’

‘Okay. I’ll leave you be.’

But she said it softly, and to his ears it sounded much like Annie would have said it, had Annie been there.

A faint breeze ruffled the huge, makeshift screen, making the image ripple, as if the dreamlike aura of the ancient movie were suddenly revealed for what it was. A chimera. A fiction about a life that now seemed equally a fiction.

Even so, nothing, at that moment, seemed more real, more true, than what was unfolding on that screen.

Sat there among those who loved him best, his face all but hidden in the half dark, Jake wiped away the tears that had been rolling down his cheeks unchecked. It was absurd, he knew, but this scene – where Sergeant Troy stooped over the coffin of his dead love, Fanny Robin, and kissed her cold, dead lips – always got to him. Nothing had the power to move him more. Watching it, he knew Troy’s despair; knew just how he could utter those awful, soul-destroying words to the living woman he had so cruelly and mistakenly married.

To prefer the dead ideal to the living reality. It was absurd… but true.

Beside him, Peter was quietly shaking with emotion. It was, as so often, all too close to be comfortable. Jake wanted to reach out and take his hand, but there was that awful restraint between them – that inability to talk of the matter. And so each suffered it alone.

As the final frame finished and the credits ran, Jake quickly made his way across to the back of the inn, squeezing through the packed back bar – where the men were crowded round the tables, talking and smoking their pipes – and into the gents.

He was standing there, relieving himself, when Tom Hubbard came and stood beside him.

‘And married the woman that had the gold…’

Jake smiled. It was a line from an old song, and, as so often, it said perfectly what he had been thinking. He himself was no Troy – no adventurer. Oh, he had been in the past, but not these days. No. Nowadays he was more of a Gabriel Oak figure, sturdy and reliable. But when it came to love…

He glanced at his old friend. ‘It all comes full circle, don’t you think?’

Tom shrugged. ‘I dunno. Watching that… well, the whole damn twentieth century might as well not have happened. I sat there thinking… this is about us, now. Only, if none of that had happened – all that stuff that came between times – then we’d not have had the film. Ironic, eh?’

‘We live in ironic times.’

‘Maybe. Yet we’re comfortable enough, don’t you think?’

Jake buttoned himself up. ‘Another beer?’

Tom shook his head. ‘Not me, boy. I’m headin’ back. Need some rest before our trip tomorrow. But the girls are stayin’ on.’ He glanced at Jake and smiled. ‘We’re not abandoning you.’

Again, there was something behind the words, only Jake was too muddled to work out what. He’d have another beer himself then go. Tom was right, after all. You needed your wits about you on the road.

They made their way back out into the long back bar. There, at the crowded central table, Geoff Horsfield, a tall man in his sixties – a historian by profession, who had run the school in Corfe for the past twenty years and more – was holding sway.

‘I was just saying,’ he said, looking up at Jake and reaching out to hold his arm. ‘Some’at’s got to change. How we are… how we live… it can’t go on. We’re driven as a species to evolve, socially as well as biologically. This here… this little pocket of warmth in which we exist… it’s not viable. Not long term, anyway… It’s no more than a sideshow. I’d say the main event’s to come, wouldn’t you, Jake?’

Only Jake didn’t want to say. He’d had this feeling in his gut the past week or so – a feeling that the presence of the strangers on the Wareham Road that morning had fed, like tinder to the flame. A giddying sense of uncertainty. It was like they were all on the edge of a cliff. One single push was all that was needed and they’d be over the edge again and falling.

‘I dunno…’ he began, but Tom took that moment to interrupt.

‘How we live, here in Purbeck… I’d say it was all pretty civilized, wouldn’t you? Tonight, for instance. Who here would have it different? Or do you forget how it was before the Collapse?’

‘No one forgets that,’ Will Cooper said, speaking from where he sat just across the table, ruddy-faced and dark-eyed, his sparse grey hair stretched thin across his sun-burnished pate. ‘None of us wants that back. But Geoff’s right. We can’t stand still. We ’ave to move on. This is all well and good, but it feels to me like we’re all just sitting on our arses waiting to die.’

There was a strong murmur at that. Some were in favour of what Will had said, but most were against. Such talk was old ground, of course. Time and again they had sat here late into the night, in the light of the old log fire, drinking the landlord’s best ale and chewing this one over. But tonight there seemed a sudden urgency to their talk.

‘Things’re changing,’ Dick Grove grumbled, shaking his head in a foreboding manner. ‘Word comin’ up the road is that’s something’s ’appening out east.’

‘Rumours,’ Tom said. ‘Nothing solid.’

‘Maybe,’ Geoff answered him, ‘but some’at’s ’appenin’, make no mistake. And perhaps it’s time it did. We’ve got too cosy. Too complacent.’

‘You think so?’ Tom asked. ‘You think we’ve got soft?’

‘Not soft so much as accepting.’

‘Accepting?’

‘Oh, I’m not advocating a return to how things were. God help us, no! It was like bleedin’ Sodom and Gomorrah, remember? The Age of Waste. A whole society living beyond its means. Yes, and we’re better off without it. But Mankind has to move on. It’s in our natures. It’s how we’re wired genetically. To sit on our arses, as our good friend Will so eloquently put it, that just isn’t an option!’

‘You would say that,’ John Lovegrove chipped in, pointing a long, bony finger at his friend, ‘but that’s cos you’re a ’istorian. I’m just a farmer and I rather like things as they are. Things weren’t good afore the Fall. Sod’em and Gomorrah, like you said, and all on live TV!’

There was laughter at that, yet as it faded Jake found his attention caught by the music drifting in from outside. It was Coldplay. ‘Everything’s Not Lost’. He smiled at the irony, then looked back, his eyes moving from face to face, tracing the circle of his friends. As Geoff talked, they looked on, their ruddy faces intent, their eyes aglow in the fire’s warm, flickering light. They were good men, every last man jack of them, but right now they were afraid. He could sense it. Something had changed. None of them knew what, but there was the feel of it in the air.

Change. It was coming. Only none of them knew from which direction.

Tom leaned close, speaking to his ear. ‘I’ve got to go. See you in the morning, eh?’

Jake nodded, looking on as Tom said his farewells, then went outside, back into the crisp late evening air.

The bonfire had burned down. In the cleared space near where Old Josh sat behind his speakers, couples were slow dancing now, lost in the music, while overhead the moon sat full and large in the cloudless sky, a pearled circle against the dark.

Jake smiled. The world could fall apart and still people would be dancing.

‘Jake…?’

He went across. Their table was in deep shadow. Only one figure sat there now, hunched in to herself, as if against the cold.

‘Mary? Where are the others?’

‘Gone off.’ She smiled at him, then patted the bench beside her. ‘Come and sit with me.’

He sat, feeling her shuffle up to him, her warmth against his side.

‘Been putting the world to rights, have you?’

He smiled. ‘Tom’s gone home.’

‘I know.’ She took his arm, put it round her shoulders.

‘Mary?’

‘I’m cold, is all.’

He closed his eyes, feeling her snuggle in against him. It felt nice. Warm and friendly.

‘Jake?’

‘What?’

‘What we said earlier. About you needing a woman…’

He looked at her again; saw how intently she was watching him.

‘What’s goin’ on? You and Tom. You’ve been odd tonight, the pair of you.’

‘Odd?’ She feigned offence, then smiled. ‘It’s nothing… You want to dance?’

‘I don’t do dancing.’

‘No?’ She sighed. ‘Oh, go on… Please, Jake. For me. Just one dance? I’d dance with Tom, only Tom’s not here…’

Jake shrugged. ‘All right. But just the one. Cos Tom’s not here.’

She held his hand as they walked across. The song ended. As the next began he took her in his arms. It was The Verve. ‘Lucky Man’.

‘Oh, Jake… I love this song…’

He held her close, closing his eyes, letting himself succumb to the warmth of her. Enjoying the way she pressed against him, swaying gently, the way she softly sang along to the words of the old song.

‘You know what?’

‘What?’ She spoke into his neck, a lazy drawl, her breath warm against his flesh.

‘I feel like I’ve been set up.’

She laughed, then drew her face back slightly, looking up into his face. She was about to say something more, then changed her mind. She looked down, away from him.

He slowed, then stopped. ‘What?’ he asked gently. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing…’ She met his eyes again and smiled, as if to reassure him, but there was a shadow now behind the smile.

‘What? Tell me.’

‘It’s nothing. Really. Just hold me, Jake. Just dance with me.’

Peter drew his face back, away from Meg’s, then gave a little shiver. Her mouth was so soft, so sweetly moist, so deliciously yielding to his own. And her eyes…

He squeezed her hands, which lay in his, and smiled.

They were leaning against the castle wall, at the top of the great slope, the ruins of the King’s Tower silhouetted against the sky at their backs. Below them and to the left, they could see the inn, its long, walled garden seeming to glow like a broad gash of gold against the darkness of the surrounding countryside. From where they were they could see people coming and going, hear the music drifting up from below.

‘Do you think we’re always gonna live here?’

‘I dunno,’ she said. ‘I s’pose so. Unless we get our own place…’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Yeah… I s’pose so. Only…’

He looked away, across the dark countryside towards the sea.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Only what?’

‘Only I’d like to see things. You know…’

She smiled then shook her head. ‘No, I don’t, silly. Tell me. What kind of things?’

‘Oh… things. Places, I guess. I mean, it’s daft. I’ve never even been to Dorchester!’

‘You will. When you’re older.’

‘Yeah, but that’s not what I meant. I want to see lots of different places. London, for instance…’

‘Lunnun?’ She gave him a look of horror. ‘What d’you wanna go see that for? It’s a horrible place. A place of living corpses.’

‘So they say. But what if they’re wrong?’

‘They ain’t wrong. They’ve spoken to people who’ve been there. There’s cannibals there… yeah, and worse things!’

He looked away, impatient with her suddenly, then relented. It wasn’t her fault. It was this place. It was like his dad said, the locals devoured rumours, and the more garish the rumour the more gullible they seemed. But he wasn’t going to argue with Meg over it.

He stood, putting his fingers to his teeth to whistle. ‘Here, Boy!’

Almost at once, Boy came bounding out of the darkness, prostrating himself at Peter’s feet to be stroked and fussed over.

He looked to her again. She was watching him, contrite now.

‘Sorry…’

‘No, it’s me.’ He straightened up, then, moving closer, gently placed his hands upon her shoulders. Once more they kissed, a long, slow kiss.

Drawing back from her, he smiled. ‘I’d best get you home. It’s late.’

Her smile mirrored his own. ‘Race you down the hill…’

He laughed, then nodded. ‘No cheating, mind…’

And off they ran, whooping as they did, down into the dark bowl of the inner courtyard and on, through the ancient gate, running full tilt, Boy barking excitedly as he ran, the sound of their childish laughter echoing up into the dark.

One dance had become a dozen. Slowly the villagers had gone home, until now it was just he and she, unwatched, unnoticed on the dance floor.

Now, as Old Josh announced the last song of the night, Jake sighed deeply then kissed her on the tip of her nose.

‘Tha’s nice,’ she said, nuzzling in to him. ‘You sha…’

‘You’re drunk, Mary Hubbard.’

She giggled. ‘I know. I…’

He put a finger to her lips. ‘One more dance and I’ll take you home. Tom’ll be wondering where you’ve got to.’

‘Tom knows where I’ve got to. I’m wi’ you.’

It was said slurringly. But she wasn’t falling down drunk yet. Nor did he intend to let her be.

‘What’s up?’ he asked her gently, as the first bars of the song rang out. ‘What’s the matter, my pretty girl?’

She laughed huskily, then pressed closer. ‘I like it when you say that. And this song…’

Old Josh had done them proud, classic after classic, but this was the best of the lot. ‘Nights In White Satin’.

Jake closed his eyes. Normally he didn’t dance. Even when Annie had been alive he’d been a reluctant partner. But with Mary…

Perhaps it was because he’d been so long without a woman, but this last hour had been magical. Her closeness had robbed him of his senses. The scent of her, the warmth of her all too female body against his own, had been intoxicating.

He squeezed her gently, feeling a real tenderness for her at that moment. ‘Thank you, Mary. You don’t know how pleasant it’s been.’

She met his eyes again. ‘You’re welcome, my love. Any time.’

He laughed. ‘You really are drunk, aren’t you?’

She nodded exaggeratedly. ‘Really, really drunk.’

‘But thank you, anyway. You and Tom. For being such good friends. For…’

She put a finger to his lips. ‘Nuff…’ She smiled at him again. ‘You’re a good dancer, you know. You have the feel for it.’

‘Do I?’

‘You do. And I bet you’re a good kisser, too.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

Only when she smiled this time he had to look away, because he really wanted to kiss her. She was Tom’s, yes, and he would never hurt his friend, only he so wanted to kiss her. Wanted it more than anything. Only, if he kissed her, what then?

‘Jake? Are you okay?’

She drew his face back with her fingers. Made him look at her again.

He studied her face, seeing both how like and unlike Annie she was. In some ways more beautiful, in others…

‘I miss her, Mary. Every fucking day.’

Her face creased in sympathy. ‘I know. I miss her too.’

‘Yeah… but that’s not what I meant. In my bed. You were right.’

‘Ah…’ She looked down, suddenly less drunk.

‘Tonight…’ He took a long, shivering breath. ‘Tonight’s been magical. I’m glad you were here with me. I…’

She pushed her face up into his and kissed him, full on the lips, a soft, warm, welcoming kiss that, after dancing with her so long, he had no power to resist. In an instant he was kissing her back, passionately, the two of them locked in an embrace, her body pressed against his own.

He broke from it, gasping. He wanted to take her, right there and then. And he knew for a fact that she would let him – that she wanted him. He had only to take her. Only it wasn’t right. She was Tom’s. She had always been Tom’s. And he owed Tom everything.

‘Mary… I…’

Mary stood there a moment, staring at him wildly, then took a step back. She looked away, up into the sky, then back at him. ‘You’d better go…’

He took a step towards her. ‘I’m sorry. I really am. I…’

‘Jake! For fuck’s sake go!’

It had a sobering effect. He stared at her, seeing how troubled she was, how agitated, then turned and fled. Away from her, as fast as he could run. Yet as he ran, out along the curving, chalk-lined path and left onto the Knowle road, he could still see her in his mind, could feel her lips, moist yet burning against his own, her breasts pressed softly against his chest, and knew he would not sleep.

‘Oh god… Oh Jesus Christ, Tom… forgive me…’

Worst of all he kept seeing her eyes – eyes that were like his own sweet Annie’s eyes.

‘Oh Christ… oh, Jesus no.’

Too late, he thought. Too fucking late.