There was no great change in the weather coming, despite the cooler day. A blip, and they would be back to another few days of hot sun. They still needed it, after the rather dull start to the summer. The vines were catching up.
Somehow, though, Pitt had the feeling that his time at the vineyard was coming to an end. With the unwanted attentions of the bank, the death of Hardyman, the arrival of DEFRA on his doorstep, and the strange case of the dying birds, Pitt could not help but think that inexorably the fates were closing in. The wine he’d produced and bottled the previous winter might well turn out to be his last.
He remained unmoved by even the darkest, most apocalyptic thoughts.
Another look at the sky, eastwards this time, from where the cool wind was blowing. He felt that the sun would be back with its lazy summer warmth by late morning the following day, and walked off in search of Jenkins.
*
Mrs Cromwell lifted the phone. Three calls to make. She stood by the Welsh dresser beside the back door, the receiver in her hand. Daisy remained seated at the table, watching. Ju was clearing up, washing dishes, drying dishes, cleaning work surfaces, starting to prepare the food for lunchtime, making a list of items on which she needed to stock up. She never looked once at Mrs Cromwell, not a glance in her direction. Mrs Cromwell stared resolutely at Ju, imagining that her eyes bored through her, tearing through her foreign flesh, laying waste the skeletal bones of her illegal immigration. For Mrs Cromwell was sure; Ju should not be there.
There was no paperwork, there was no tax or National Insurance; just a pittance, below the minimum wage, paid to her at the end of the week. And Mrs Cromwell had been asking questions, wondering what kind of thing it might be that Ju did at the weekend. And she had a good idea what that might be, having watched a documentary on Channel 4 and having read the Daily Mail for the previous fifty years of her life. Mrs Cromwell always knew or assumed the worst.
And it just so happened that, on this occasion, she was right.
She called Horsfield at DEFRA, but with no luck. She did not leave a message as she did not want Horsfield returning the call and getting Pitt. She called the UK Borders Agency and reported that there was a possible illegal immigrant working at their house, that they had taken her on in good faith but had become suspicious. She looked at Daisy as she spoke; Daisy trembled with excitement and rage, glad that her mother was making the call, annoyed that she was taking something else that Daisy had organised and was trampling it into the dirt.
And, when she was finished with that, Mrs Cromwell called the local police and said much the same thing as she’d said to UK Borders, but added her belief that the illegal immigrant was involved in something illegal at the weekends too, very possibly prostituting herself. The police replied that someone would be around to ask questions at the earliest available opportunity.
Daisy bristled with fury; she looked at Ju, having not considered this before. She had buried her head in the sand about the possibility of Ju not being legally in the country; however, the thought that she might be a whore had not even crossed her mind.
At last, she admitted to herself that her mother had been right. It was time for Yuan Ju to leave.
The two times that Mrs Cromwell mentioned Ju by name on the phone, she imagined she saw the stiffening of her body; but Ju did not allow herself to look up. Silently, she continued about her business.
Mrs Cromwell tried DEFRA once again, Horsfield answered the phone. This time she did not mention Yuan Ju by name, but mentioned that the strange instance of the birds dying had begun at exactly the same time as the arrival of an illegal worker at the vineyard. Perhaps it was nothing, yet it did seem a remarkable coincidence.
Horsfield, eager to grasp onto anything with which she might nail the sanctimonious Pitt, gratefully accepted the information.
The peculiarity of what Mrs Cromwell told Horsfield was that she was entirely accurate. The strange instance of the dead and missing birds dated precisely from the day that Ju first came onto the vineyard. The fact that she had inadvertently stumbled across the truth whilst in search of an incriminating lie had been entirely accidental.
She hung up and paused for a second. She had contemplated also calling the newspapers, but stopped short. There would be time yet. First of all, she could see how the three strands of attack that she had unleashed that morning would develop.
The possibility that the vineyard would suffer as a result, and that her lifestyle would also suffer, was of little consequence to her. She did not think in those terms, just as Pitt did not. She had only one concern; to make mischief, to make people as black and miserable as she was herself. If she had to suffer for her work, then so be it.
She left the phone behind, deciding that her work of the morning was done. With a harsh look at Daisy, who returned the glare of loathing from across the table, and another festering glance of hatred directed at Ju, Mrs Cromwell walked to the fireplace and settled herself into her favourite comfortable chair to read the news.
Mrs Cromwell had unleashed the first volley of her attack. War was upon them.
26
conversations with hardyman
They were eating at Hardyman’s club, Brooks’s on St. James’s Street. Hardyman generally didn’t take his clients there, as often they were too interested in the other diners. Pitt showed no such curiosity. Hardyman admired his restraint but suspected that, in fact, Pitt just had no idea that he was lunching in amongst a variety of politicians, Lords, men who were three hundred and seventy-fifth in line to the throne, and film directors.
As it was, Pitt was not particularly relaxed in the surroundings. The first time he had gone there, he had assumed Hardyman was trying to intimidate, or, at the very least, show off in order to justify his fees. Pitt had ordered the same food as Hardyman, so that he could follow his lead, and not make any faux pas involving the wrong cutlery. As ever, his insecurity had been completely masked by the painfully austere exterior.
As time passed, Pitt came to realise that there was no disingenuousness in Hardyman. He went to the club because he felt at home there; it was who he was. Yet, judging by the conversation he heard around the other tables, Hardyman did not fit the mould.
‘Did you do it?’ asked Hardyman. Carpaccio of beef on his fork, his eyebrow raised.
They hadn’t been discussing the vineyard, but Pitt knew immediately he was referring to the green harvest.
‘Yes,’ he said bluntly. ‘Last week.’
Hardyman took the carpaccio into his mouth, letting the flavour settle on his tongue before starting to chew. He ate slowly, savoured every mouthful. Pitt thought sometimes that Hardyman, like no man he had ever met, squeezed every single drop of enjoyment from life that he could. He sometimes wished he could do the same.
He was eating goat’s cheese and figs, a dribble of honey. Brittle toast. Nearly finished, Hardyman seemed barely to have started.
‘What did Jenkins think?’ he asked.
Pitt didn’t answer. Jenkins had thought the same as Hardyman; that it would not be worth it.
‘What about Daisy?’ said Hardyman. ‘Did you discuss it with her?’
Pitt’s face broke at last, and Hardyman joined him.
‘Made you smile at least,’ he said. ‘I take it you didn’t bring Daisy into the decision making process?’
Pitt said nothing, and finished off his cheese, raking the last morsel around the plate to clear up the honey. He caught Hardyman’s eye, detecting for the first time a certain sadness in his look. Not the dreadful, all-encompassing melancholy that engulfed him when he looked at Yuan Ju, but a look of regret.
‘What?’ said Pitt.
Hardyman looked up, surprised. ‘Sorry?’ he said in reply.
‘You seem... you look like there’s something. Like you think I should talk to Daisy... Although, it’s not that,’ said Pitt. ‘There’s something else, because you don’t care if I talk to Daisy. Why should you?’
Hardyman smiled rueful
ly, waved a dismissive fork.
‘Sometimes... perhaps we should talk to our partners, that’s all,’ he said. ‘It might help.’
‘You think your wife would be grateful if you discussed all the women you slept with?’
Hardyman looked slightly abashed, then, with another wave of the fork, dismissed the conversation, and in an instant his face resumed its avuncular norm.
‘What did Jenkins say?’ he asked. ‘And don’t lie, because I have his phone number.’
‘You phone Jenkins?’ said Pitt.
‘Not yet, but I can.’
‘Jenkins thinks it doesn’t make sense,’ said Pitt. ‘He can see the thrill of chasing the perfect bottle of wine, but only from a standpoint of financial security...’
Hardyman barked out a laugh that attracted a glance or two from the next table.
‘... which he knows we don’t yet have. He thinks we should consolidate first, then look for perfection in later years.’
Hardyman almost giggled, as he took another small sip of Chablis. Attempting to drink only one glass, as he was meeting new clients later in the afternoon. Two or three glasses tended to go to his face, always turning it red regardless of the colour of wine he’d been drinking.
‘Makes me think you’d already called him,’ said Pitt.
‘Makes me think,’ said Hardyman, ‘that the man’s not a pussy. Quite happy to stand up to his boss and talk sense.’
‘I don’t pay him to do anything else,’ said Pitt. ‘Doesn’t mean I have to listen to him.’
‘And what if you produce the perfect bottle, then lose the vineyard?’
Pitt didn’t answer. He straightened the knife and fork on his plate. Hardyman nodded. He already knew the answer to that. Pitt wasn’t at all concerned with the finances of the vineyard. He lived to produce wine. If he could get away without selling any of it, he would quite happily do it. And if, some day, he lost his vineyard, he would go away and work out how to get another one; and, if he couldn’t get another one, then maybe he would just think that his life’s work was done, and he could die.
Perhaps that was what Hardyman admired most about Pitt; his certainty of future. He would make wine until he died; there would be nothing else. If it was for another forty years, or another four, or if this summer was his last, it didn’t seem to matter.
‘You have to hope that whoever has your account at the bank this time next year likes wine,’ he said. Even as he spoke, Hardyman knew that Pitt would not hope for that at all. Pitt would not care.
27
Pitt woke early again. Not long after 4:30, the grey of morning. There was the usual freshness in the room, colder than the previous few weeks after the cool of the previous afternoon; but the day would be warm.
The sleepiness snapped out of him and he listened closely to the morning. No birds. Too early for insects. No distant sound of traffic. Nothing stirring in the house. Daisy breathing noiselessly as ever.
He turned his head to look at her, the unmoving, soundless form beside him. The space in the bed, usually so dully filled by Daisy, was empty. He stared at the vacant spot for a second and then slowly raised himself up. Listened for the sounds of her in the bathroom. Her movement in getting up was probably what had woken him.
He waited for a short time, ears straining. Nothing from the bathroom, then he was aware of a distant sound in the house. Downstairs. He glanced at the clock, looked back at the break in the curtains to gauge the early brightness of the day.
He stood up softly out of bed. Took in the day, and then walked to the door and down the stairs.
He entered the kitchen just as Daisy was sitting down at the table. She was alone, with a cup of tea and a magazine. She glanced at him, a second while the fact that he was there registered, then she rolled her eyes and shook her head. She was disconcerted by his presence, and, as usual, would cover that with disdain and aggression.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ she said. ‘Not that I get to have any time on my own, though, is it?’
He stood in the doorway staring at her. What did he do now? He either had to talk or return to bed.
‘Woke up, felt like a coffee,’ he said. The words struggled from his mouth.
‘Kettle’s boiled.’
Pitt hesitated, then finally committed himself to the kitchen. He poured himself a glass of water, which he drank with his back to Daisy, and then lifted the small bag of coffee beans down from the high cupboard. He was aware of her looking at him, the contemptuous eyes.
Then, as the coffee beans spun and ground, the sound of the grating, spitting beans filling the room, Daisy twitching in annoyance, the door opened for the third time in under a few minutes.
Pitt took his finger off the button, the grinder ground to a halt. Daisy followed his gaze to the door.
Yuan Ju, walking into the kitchen, coming to start work, at the same time as she did every other day. 4:57a.m. She looked like she hadn’t slept. She looked like she’d been crying. She paused in the door and was so surprised by Daisy’s presence, that she even allowed herself to look at her. However, as soon as their eyes met, Ju lowered her gaze and stood half in and half out the room.
There was another strange and awkward silence, not something that Daisy was wont to tolerate for long; particularly when it did not involve her mother.
‘You might as well come in,’ she said. ‘Join the crowd. I expect you two have a lot to talk about.’
She had not picked up on the chemistry between Pitt and Ju; they had masked it well. In her selfishness, she perceived all her mother’s schemes as being directed against her as the one who had foolishly brought Ju to the house in the first place; she saw it as her mother continuing to exert her authority over her adult daughter. She did not understand the level of hatred that her mother felt for Pitt, or for anything that Pitt might himself care about.
Daisy noisily turned the page of her magazine, then turned back to the table, away from the others.
‘It’d be nice to get some peace around here,’ she muttered.
Pitt ignored her, his eyes locked brazenly on Ju. Ju, at last, lifted her gaze to his. Just for a second.
Saturday morning. Her mind lurched from one unhappy thought to another. Would he be standing there staring at her if he knew what she would be doing that evening? Would he have stood beside her cutting vegetables? Would he have sat and watched her as she floated around the kitchen? Would he be there now, wearing the look that enquired after her well-being? The only person to show her the slightest compassion since she had come to England. Would he be showing that compassion if he knew that sixteen hours from now she would be in a dimly lit room, with four or five other young women, being raped and abused by a succession of men?
She bowed her head even lower, the thought of the night ahead making her nauseous. Pitt wanted to tell her to go back to bed, but he had no words. He felt that every word, every look and thought betrayed him.
The noise of the coffee grinder began again, low and harsh, and the morning started.
It was a unique morning, in its way. Or, at least, it could have been. Daisy had awoken with a thought that had not been for herself.
She had come early to the kitchen with the intent of warning Ju. Up early, so that she could get to her before Mrs Cromwell was about; and before Pitt could find out what was going on. But her husband had blundered into the morning, stumbled into the middle of her plan, and so, as she settled down with her tea and a two week-old magazine, she decided that perhaps she just wouldn’t warn Ju at all; whatever was going to happen would run its course, and she didn’t have to feel guilty about it because the reason she hadn’t been able to avert Ju’s personal comeuppance and tragedy had been the fault of her hapless husband.
28
Mrs Cromwell fretted for many long, slow hours, her plan not unfolding as she would have wished. The police were supposed to have turned up at some point during the day, the thought of which held her in a state of malicious thrall. However, as the
afternoon wore on, she came to thinking that they might not arrive before Ju took herself away for the night.
Ju was of little use to anyone all day, her behaviour erratic.
There were three of the men working that Saturday, the usual mid-summer canopy management, and the cutting of the grass to allow air movement between the vines. They arrived with Jenkins for lunch, laughing and joking. There was something about the kitchen, however, and their good humour was quickly sucked from them. They ate in silence, wondering what it was that sat so heavily upon them. And they all, to a man, felt it lift as soon as they had stepped back outside.
After lunch, Ju cried, soft silent tears of desperation. Pitt pretended not to notice. Daisy sat in soundless contempt. Mrs Cromwell drank in Ju’s despair, a strange beast taking sustenance from the grief and anxiety of others. But her glory would not be fulfilled until Ju had been taken away from them, the status quo restored, her daughter put back in her place, and Pitt’s emotions – if he had any – crushed beneath Mrs Cromwell’s feet.
She lived for such victories, big or small.
Ju left earlier than usual, at a little before quarter to four. She went to her room, changed, made up a small bag, and left the house, walking silently through the kitchen. The twin perils were both there, but neither said a word. Daisy watched her disdainfully; Mrs Cromwell with impotent rage, glaring at her daughter, demanding Ju be stopped. Yet Ju did not just have her own silence, she induced it in others.
*
Ju walked down the long driveway from the house, the warm summer sun on her back. A hazy, muggy day, yet its beauty, the sun, the heat and the lazy English summer, were completely lost to her; her night would be ugly and hot and brutal, and the thought of it filled her with fear.
She wanted to not think about it. One of the other women had told her that she had to learn to switch off. Just as her grandmother had told her; wake up when you see daylight. Yet she could not put herself to sleep for this, she could not shut out the horror.
A Room With No Natural Light Page 9
