Proud Harvest

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‘Then why did you let me send him to school? Why didn’t you step in before he started his education?’

Carne sighed. ‘Last year—last year there were problems.’

‘How convenient!’

‘No, it wasn’t convenient at all, as it happens.’ His mouth tightened. ‘But what we’re talking about right now is this year, these holidays.’ He paused. ‘What are you afraid of?’

Lesley gasped. ‘I’m not afraid of anything.’

‘Then why don’t you want me to see the boy?’

‘You can see him any time you like.’

‘In your presence—I know.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘Everything.’ He waited until the waiter had set Lesley’s fruit juice in front of her, and then continued in a low voice: ‘Let’s put the record straight, shall we? You had a hard time having the boy, I accepted that. I also accepted that you found it hard to recover your strength after you got back to the farm. It was a hard winter, I know. It wasn’t conducive to recuperation. But I did everything I could. I gave you a room to yourself—I even kept away from you because I knew you couldn’t bear me to touch you—–’

‘That’s your story!’ she burst out hotly, and he heaved another sigh of resignation. For several seconds he continued to stare at her and then, with a gesture of defeat, he left her to drink the glass of orange juice.

Lesley tried to calm herself. At every turn he was able to disconcert her, forcing her into reckless retaliation, destroying the façade of composure she was trying so unsuccessfully to maintain.

She swallowed the fruit juice and the waiter removed her glass. If he wondered why his two customers should be talking so earnestly one minute and then so obviously estranged the next, he was too professional to show his curiosity, but Lesley sensed the sympathetic looks he cast in her direction.

Realising it was up to her to say something, she murmured: ‘How serious do you think my mother’s condition is?’

It was an effort to get him to respond to her again, and she could tell by his expression that he knew that as well as she did.

‘All heart conditions need to be taken seriously,’ he retorted shortly. ‘I suppose it depends on the age of the person and how strenuous a life they lead.’

‘Well, Mother doesn’t have a particularly strenuous life,’ Lesley ventured consideringly. ‘I mean, she has Mrs Mason come in three mornings every week to do the housework, and I usually prepare dinner when I get home. She doesn’t bother with much at lunchtime, unless she’s having a friend over for the day, and occasionally she goes out to play bridge.’

‘Until Jeremy comes home,’ Carne put in dampeningly, and she was forced to concede that this was true. ‘Which brings us back to the point of this meeting,’ he continued coldly. ‘Well? Are you going to fight me?’

Lesley’s brown eyes, so unusual with her fair colouring, flickered upward. ‘Fight you?’

‘Didn’t you always?’ he retorted. ‘God knows why you ever married me! God knows why I was fool enough to ask you!’

The lasagne lay in thick tomato sauce, a meaty filling between thin slices of pasta. Looking at it, Lesley wondered how she had ever imagined she could taste it. She felt sick, and her fork moved it sluggishly round her plate. It even made a sickly sound, and she pressed her lips together and looked anywhere but at her plate.