same music in the evening as they sat together on the sofa hearing the distant fluting of an owl above the soft notes of the woodwind.
His arm was around her shoulders, drawing her to him; he was solid and warm and reassuring and she was already half-way to being in love. Later, upstairs on the landing, he kissed her goodnight outside her bedroom door, then placed his finger against her lips as she tried to speak. ‘No, Annette. I told you. Sleep well, my love.’ And he was gone, leaving her lonely and disappointed as she let herself into the dark room and groped for the unaccustomed light switch.
They began to make it a pattern. Duncan would come up to Kevin’s office on a Friday, fill in time until five o’clock then together they would climb into his car and wend the long agonizing route through the heavy traffic towards the west. Sometimes they bought chips on the way; sometimes she made sandwiches. Once in a while they listened to the car radio but more often they talked. They talked about everything. Life. Work. Holidays; and sheep. But never about love.
Yet she knew he loved her. It showed in his eyes; in his hesitant glances when he thought she wasn’t looking. In the deep, lasting kisses when they lay together on the sofa, listening to the records they had brought with them from town, and finally and ecstatically in his tender lovemaking when at last he followed her into the now familiar bedroom and took her in his arms …
Next morning when she woke he had gone from the bed. She stretched happily and lay gazing at the faint light behind the curtains, listening to the plaintive whistling of a blackbird.
Duncan had gone out to the sheep; later he would come back with the papers and some coffee and perhaps climb into bed, his hair damp from the shower as he laid his head on her breast. Lying in his arms then, clinging to him, her heart full of love, she knew something was still very wrong. But she no longer cared what it was. It was enough that he was there and that she was with him.
Then he went away. ‘Only for a couple of weeks, Annette. On business to Switzerland. I wish you could come too, my love.’
She’d known instantly, by the way he lowered his eyes and mumbled, unable to look at her, that he had lied. But which was the lie? That he was going on business, or that he wanted her to come too?
She swallowed her misery and worked extra hours at the office, trying not to think of what he might be doing in Switzerland, of what business a sheep farmer could possibly have in Geneva or the high mountains beyond.
When he returned she knew she had lost him again. Oh, he was pleased to see her; and his warmth when he drew her to him was real, but something had changed. His reserve had returned and she knew that, if she asked, he would say again, ‘We must not get involved, Annette,’ and that for him it would be true.
She cried a lot that summer, unhappy in her love, seeking comfort in the arms which were the source of her unhappiness, but unable to tear herself away.
It was his mother who told her. His parents lived not far away, watching their son’s farming efforts with tolerant amusement – but they were less amused by Annette.
She was a little in awe of his mother. Janet was so capable and hearty, so unruffled by anything. So it was a shock one morning to come down into the kitchen wearing Duncan’s bathrobe to find Janet standing there, her coat still on, staring out of the window at the garden. The woman turned and looked at Annette, her face full of compassion. The expression hit Annette like a hammer. Her veins iced over as she guessed instinctively something of what was to come.
‘Annette dear, Duncan tells me that you and he are not involved. That yours is an open relationship, whatever that means.’ Janet’s face had become unusually pink and shiny. ‘I don’t believe him altogether. I think you are more involved than he realizes and I don’t want you to get hurt.’
It was suddenly so cold in the room.
‘I won’t get hurt,’ Annette said cheerfully. ‘Duncan’s quite right. It is an open relationship.’
‘And so you know about Celia?’
There was a lump of something in her throat, pressing down on her windpipe, stopping her breathing properly.
‘Celia?’ She had to pretend. She had to say she didn’t care.
‘His fiancée, Annette.’ Janet’s voice was unusually gentle. ‘She will be coming back you know.’
‘Where is she?’ Her voice sounded strange in her own ears, thin and high, like a bird screaming in a storm.
‘She’s still in Switzerland, at the clinic. But she will be completely cured. And Duncan swore he’d wait for her, my dear. He swore.’
‘Of course he did.’ She sounded light and carefree now as she pulled the belt of the robe more tightly round her slim waist. ‘You don’t have to worry, Janet. Really.’
Oh God, why hadn’t he told her? How could he have let her go on imagining that it would all have been all right in the end.
The words echoed round her brain as she dressed and pulled on her light jacket. Duncan was out with a sick ewe. His mother had left the house, spinning the wheels of the car in her agitation. The house was silent and deserted; the house she had secretly, in her heart, thought of already as home.
She walked across the bare garden, hands in pockets and looked out across the fields. There were no sheep there now; they were desolate, like her.
Then he was there beside her, his face glowing, his eyes laughing, his warmth and humour reaching out to her. ‘What about breakfast? I’m starving.’
‘How’s the ewe?’ The steady cheerfulness of her voice amazed her.
‘She’ll be OK. Crisis is over. Was that ma’s car I saw?’
Annette nodded. ‘She couldn’t wait. Just looked in to say hello.’
And goodbye. Because, of course, Annette could never come to the farm again. She didn’t say anything in the end. What was the point of screaming and ranting at him? He had made no promises, held out no hope of the future. He had assumed they were still working from the first blueprint. ‘No involvement, Annette my love. Just a good time while we’re both at a loose end, OK?’
In the house, as she made the coffee with absolute concentration, Duncan said, ‘Paula and Tony have asked us to dinner next weekend to see how their extension is progressing.’ He did not look up. His face was buried in the newspaper.
‘Oh what a shame. I’d love to have gone.’ She was pouring the coffee, not looking at him, but she heard the rustle of the paper as he put it down.
‘Why can’t you?’ Amazed. Even slightly hurt.
‘I can’t come down next weekend, Duncan, I’m sorry. In fact not for several weeks. I’m tied up.’ She put the cup on the table without raising her eyes to his. ‘It’s nearly Christmas after all. I’ve so much to do. I’m ashamed I’ve allowed myself to come down here so much!’ That was it. Bright and brittle. Don’t ever show how much you are hurting inside.
She could feel him looking at her; imagine the thoughtful puzzlement with which he was watching. And she knew she would not be fooling him for an instant. She looked up at last and met his gaze, smiling. ‘You’ll have to do without me, Duncan. I think it’s best.’ She could not fight a sick enemy, one she had never seen.
