But today, intrigued, Avis assumed, by her opening gambit, “You’ll never guess what I just saw!” Sarah was sitting, gently rocking back and forth by the stone-cold Aga, in the Jennings’ kitchen. She was wearing blue, as she nearly always did, a jerkin embroidered with peacock-coloured silks, a long, full skirt of washed-out indigo. And a necklace of cornflowers fitted together in the manner of a child’s daisy chain.
“Easy to see what your favourite colour is,” said Avis. She wondered about quoting one of the few lines of poetry that still stuck in her mind from school. It was certainly appropriate. She cleared her throat. “ ‘I never saw a man who looked with such a wistful eye—’ ”
“Don’t!” Sarah stopped rocking, her feet coming down hard against the stone-flagged floor. “I hate that poem.”
“I’m ... sorry.” Instead of being satisfied that she had finally scratched Sarah’s emotional surface, Avis felt awkward and uncouth. She was about to change the subject when Sarah spoke again.
“There’s a painting by Van Gogh. A prison yard, mile-high walls. Almost circular, like a tower. The men trudge round and round, their heads down. Everything’s grey and wretched. But then, right at the top of the picture and so small you could almost miss it, there’s a butterfly.”
“I think I know the one you mean,” lied Avis. “Isn’t it in the National Gallery?”
“I’d go slowly mad if I couldn’t see the sky.”
“Well, I shouldn’t think you’ve much to worry about.” A jolly laugh which didn’t really come off. “It’s not going to suddenly vanish. Not that there’s anything to vanish, of course,” she stumbled on. “Just emptiness, really. But ... very, um, beautiful.”
“Yes. One understands why people who believe in heaven think it must be up there.”
Avis, glad to be occupied, bustled about getting the coffee. In honour of the occasion she took some beans out of the freezer. These were normally kept for Sunday morning when there was time for Dr. Jim, as everyone in the village including his wife called him, actually to savour the breakfast tipple rather than just slosh it down and run. Without quite knowing why, Avis pushed the jar of Maxwell House behind her food mixer as she got the grinder out.
“This makes rather a noise, I’m afraid,” she screamed over the whizzing screech. She realised she should have spoken before switching on but the whole situation, no more than a storm in a teacup really, had got her really flustered. Not that Sarah had appeared critical. Indeed she had never been known to voice, even obliquely, an unkind word about anybody. This was not because she was not interested—quite the contrary. Sarah seemed more completely interested in whoever she was with and in their mutual surroundings than anyone Avis had ever come across. The degree and quality of her attention, once she had deigned to bestow it, was remarkable. Yet though not entirely without warmth, there was something deeply impersonal about it.
Avis’s husband, miles from being a fanciful man, once said that spending time with Sarah was like standing in front of a mirror, one was observed with such precision and clarity. Avis thought it was more like being looked at through a camera lens.
Pressing down the plunger of the cafetiére she now said, “Do you like milk or cream, Sarah?”
“Milk’s fine.”
“And sugar?”
“No thanks.”
Avis got down her best cups. Sarah had moved to the old wooden table underneath the window and was transferring the eggs from their grey, cardboard stacking sheets to a blue and white mottled bowl. She paused a moment, holding a speckly, pale tan one in the palm of her hand. There was a small feather still sticking to it and the darker brown freckles were rough against her skin.
“Aren’t they the most beautiful things?” She balanced the final egg carefully on top of the rest. “I love looking at them. Why anyone ever puts them in a fridge is beyond me.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Avis, vowing silently that from that moment on she never would.
“Apart from anything else, they get so cold the shells crack when you boil them.”
“Is that right?” Avis poured the coffee. It was only Sainsbury’s basic but it had a lovely oily sheen and smelt divine. “Would you like anything with it? A biscuit or some cake?”
Sarah said “No thanks” again and half smiled. She didn’t rush to elaborate on or explain her brief refusal as most people of Avis’s acquaintance would have done. Nor, which was much more surprising, did she ask what the unguessable exciting thing was that Avis had seen just before her own arrival. Avis found this most impressive. She admired Sarah’s control enormously while at the same time, to a more modest degree, admiring her own, for she was dying for a slice of tipsy cake. Momentarily she wondered if Sarah might not be restraining her curiosity but was genuinely uninterested. Surely this could not be true. She probably wanted to appear a cut above ordinary human nosiness. Understandable.
Then, as if to confound such reasoning, Sarah said in a tone of humorous indulgence, “Well, go on then. Tell me all about it.”
“A car came to Nightingales about half an hour ago. A black Mercedes.”
“Simone’s back?”
“No. It was a man with a briefcase. Alan let him in. He only stayed a few minutes but when he left he wasn’t carrying the case.”
Sarah burst out laughing. “I wouldn’t like to try concealing anything in this place.”
“It was pure coincidence I happened to be passing.” Avis blushed defiantly. “I was taking old Mrs. Perkins’ repeat arthritis prescription. Saves her walking to the surgery.”
“Did you get the car’s number?”
“All right, all right.” Annoyed at being made to feel foolish, Avis stopped worrying about appearing undisciplined, got the tin down and cut herself a large chunk of cake. “But you can’t deny it’s all very mysterious. For instance, Alan hasn’t left the house since Simone disappeared. You’d think he’d be out looking for her.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t know where to start.”
“What about his work?”
“What about his work?” repeated Sarah, her tranquil voice emphasising the second word.
“Everyone says he’s going to pieces.”
“How do they know if he hasn’t left the house?”
“Ohhh!” Avis’s voice flared with irritation. She swallowed her cake and dropped the fork which clattered on to her plate. “Why are you always so ...” Thinking pedantic might offend, she chose rational.
“Because irrationality alarms me.”
The two women looked at each other. Avis swallowed again, this time from nervous excitement. Sarah had never before today offered even the smallest, most innocuous personal revelation. And now, two in succession. Avis seized on what she determined to regard as an invitation to friendship and her mind leaped into the future. They would tell each other the complete story of their lives and discuss everything both trivial and profound. Sarah would talk about her work and Avis would learn about art and music and literature. She saw her horizons stretching wider and wider, her plain old world transformed into something both complex and extraordinary. Her mind would open like a flower.
Sarah, having finished her coffee, was getting up to go in the same composed, unhurried way that she had arrived. Picking up her beautiful mottled bowl of eggs she moved towards the door.
“Shall I see you next week?” cried Avis, already looking forward to it.
“Doubt it. These will probably last me quite a while.”
“That batty old woman next door’s been to the police.”