it.’
They slowed to drive through a sleepy village whose shops were all closed. A few teenagers wandered along the street, laughing, before diving into a small eighteenth-century white-painted pub. The pub sign swung to and fro, creaking. It carried a painting of a goat’s head, sinister horns, the slanting, ominous yellow eyes staring down at her. Was it meant to be the Devil?
‘They do great food,’ said Matt. ‘And have the sexiest barmaid in Essex.’
She laughed. ‘You go there often, I suppose?’
He turned his head to grin at her and she saw he was back to normal, his spasm of emotion over. ‘What do you think? Whenever I’m down here I drive over for a drink at The Goat. I ought to come more often. I’m missing out on Lisa’s childhood, seeing so little of her; my mother nags me endlessly about it.’
‘How old is your mother?’ asked Bianca, thinking that Mrs Hearne was very brave, taking on a new baby.
‘Sixty-three.’
‘Doesn’t she find Lisa tiring? Even young mothers find it exhausting to run after three-year-olds.’
He frowned. ‘She’s never complained.’
‘Maybe she didn’t want to worry you.’ She saw his face tighten, his mouth tense, and wished she had kept her mouth shut. ‘Sorry,’ she added hurriedly. ‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’ It wasn’t her business, anyway, was it?
How thoughtless! As if he hadn’t enough to worry about with his mother being rushed off to hospital for an emergency operation. At sixty-three any emergency was likely to have potential dangers. Luckily, an appendectomy was an operation which most surgeons would have frequently performed, but he must be anxious. She could kick herself for saying what she had, implying criticism. She didn’t even know his mother. How did she know whether Mrs Hearne was fit enough to take care of a small child?
‘You think I’ve been selfish?’ he curtly said, and she bit her lip.
‘No, of course not—just…maybe…well, I don’t know your mother; she could be having the time of her life, looking after your little girl. Oh, look, I shouldn’t have said anything—don’t take any notice of me.’
‘Huh,’ he grunted, lines biting into his forehead. ‘Too late to say that. You’ve put the idea into my head now.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she guiltily said.
‘No, you’re right, I have been thoughtless. When my mother’s over this I’ll talk to her. She has said Lisa should start at playschool in the mornings and that might help. Or maybe I should hire a nanny?’
Bianca didn’t risk commenting. She had said more than enough already. She stared out into the dark landscape. The fields on either side were very flat; she saw the occasional cow loom up as they drove past. Bianca thought it dull, compared to the grandeur of the Dorset landscape—the rounded hills, flowing green fields, the ancient hill forts, with their barrows and stone circles, the woods and copses, and the white chalk cliffs along the coast.
They turned a corner and slowed before parking outside a white-painted wooden gate leading into a large garden. By the rising moon Bianca saw the house, half red brick, half timbered, with a black gabled roof of rosy tiles, and a little thicket of trees behind it, to shelter it from the cold, piercing winds blowing in from the estuary and the unseen sea.
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