‘A friend from your circus days?’
‘All gone. The circus is gone.’
Simon, who has been hovering by Abigail’s skirt, slips out through the door in pursuit of the noise.
‘We picked Django up on the road,’ Deirdre says. ‘I stopped for a pee and there he was, sitting on a branch practically over my head, tooting away. Scared me half to death.’
‘But a gentle boy,’ Aleksy says.
Abigail is pouring water from the pan into the tea pot. ‘Maud found tea in the village,’ she says, ‘and some vegetables still good – potatoes and onions mainly. None of the locals are left. There are more things we could bring. We should wait though, in case anyone comes back.’
‘Who’d come back now?’ I ask her. ‘Where would they come from?’
‘You came back.’ It’s striking the way she says this – more an affirmation than a challenge. ‘And Deirdre and Aleksy have come. We don’t know who’s on the road. All those cottages were home to someone.’ The colour rises in her face. It’s awkward for her to assert herself in argument.
She’s right, up to a point. How can we know who else is out there? We settle into silence. There’s everything to talk about, and nothing. Our stories are all different. Our stories are all the same – we watched the others die and here we are.
In the early days of the virus, remember Caro, people couldn’t stop talking about it. Then suddenly we couldn’t bear any more talk. We’d overloaded on novelty. Words were too thin to bear the weight. People stared blankly at each other. Only their eyes spoke. Will you hurt me? Have you got something I need?
‘Look, Jason. Deirdre brought these oat cakes.’ Abigail shows me the plate of them, fresh from their wrapping and still in their plastic tray. ‘She used to have a shop.’
‘Local farm produce,’ Deirdre says. ‘French and Italian cheeses. Pickles, preserves, antipasti. Oils and dressings. Organic wines. I built it up from a pick-your-own operation and a farm shop selling vegetables.’ Tears come to her eyes and she wipes them impatiently with the back of her hand.
‘All she can load on the cart,’ Aleksy says, ‘she brings with her.’
‘Not that much, Aleksy. The odd jar of this or that.’ She smiles pathetically at Abigail as though a lie and a smile would save her neck if Abigail meant to rob her. ‘I left in a hurry.’
Abigail blinks, not understanding, not thinking of herself as powerful.
The clarinet stops. There’s a murmur of voices on the staircase.
‘Deirdre had a stable full of horses, Jason,’ Abigail says. ‘Isn’t that right, Deirdre? And taught children how to ride.’
Deirdre nods tearfully and starts talking about the names of the horses that were stolen on the road, what colours they were – bay or piebald – how many hands. None of which means anything to me. But I know now what Abigail is telling me, why she’s interested – she thinks Deirdre’s an asset. She’s practical, Abigail. She’s got this kitchen sorted. There’s a stack of logs by the stove, jugs and buckets for water, bowls of vegetables. She’s been going through the knives – they’re laid out on the draining board, including a lot I don’t recognise. Practical, and familiar with this scrappy, sweated existence where nothing’s piped or wired or transmitted, where nothing comes to your house that you don’t lug in through the door. I can see it’s not new to her. But what does she know of people? Deirdre would look good on a horse, I can see that, and maybe she’d know what to do if a horse got sick – I know I wouldn’t – but she’s too twitchy for my liking. Her hand shakes when she lowers the cigarette to her mouth. She sucks too hungrily on it. What will she be like when her supply runs out? What will she feed on then? The rims of her fingernails are already ragged and bleeding.
Through the window, I watch the chickens scratching in the stable yard.
Aleksy clears his throat. ‘You shouldn’t wait for the villagers,’ he says. ‘What is property? The Mercedes on your drive. Very nice car, very smooth, but worth less than one of Deirdre’s goats. Time now to reassess, reallocate. Our duty is no longer to the law but to nature.’
Deirdre shrugs, smiling awkwardly at Abigail, as though embarrassed by a precocious child. She sucks on what’s left of her cigarette and stubs it out before exhaling.
The monkey, who has climbed down from Aleksy’s shoulder, stands on a chair to study the microwave, watching his reflection in the glass.
Aleksy gestures with his head. ‘The cows down in the field are yours?’
‘We’ve been milking them,’ Abigail tells him, ‘as many as we can. They were desperate. We’ve got more milk than we know what to do with.’
‘Of course. So now they’re yours. And now you need hooks.’ He registers our blank looks. ‘For mowing, making hay.’
Abigail says, ‘Scythes.’
‘Scythes, yes. Too late this year. This year you scavenge. But next summer…’ He makes a sweeping gesture, one fist at shoulder height, the other at his waist. ‘When the sun shines and while the rain holds off. Another job for you – to search the barns, the sheds. A job for Jason when his strength returns.’ He shows me his teeth. ‘When the miracle is complete.’
Simon comes in pulling the musician by the hand.
‘Hello, hello, everyone.’
So this is Django. He looks at me and I see something – a flicker of recognition – but his eyes move on to Abigail and Maud. He lifts his clarinet. ‘Love your staircase. Great acoustics.’
I’ve changed my mind about Deirdre. Twitching and nail biting are sane responses to the world. Screaming would also make sense, or sitting in stunned silence. Not sane is admiring the acoustics.
Deirdre says, ‘Django, this is Jason. A survivor, apparently. Had it five days and getting better.’
Django studies me and I find I’m afraid. He’s recognised Simon. He knows who we are. But nothing changes in his expression, and he turns back to Abigail with the same steadiness. He’s young – early twenties, younger maybe. He wears a bowler hat, jacket striped like a deckchair, skinny trousers rolled above the ankle, big boots. The country’s piled with unworn clothes and Django’s looted an Oxfam shop. He’s a buffoon. So what is it in his eyes that gets to me? Openness. Benign curiosity. People don’t look at people like that, not any more.
I shuffle out into the yard to take a piss. Abigail’s inclined to follow but I tell her I’ll be all right. I rest against the wall with my legs shaking. Then I make a slow ascent to the turret and stumble into bed.
Abigail’s unpacked your copy of Jane Eyre, Caro, and left it on the bedside table. The old book falls open near the end, near the part we argued about – Jane rescued from exposure and starvation on the moor, taken in by the saintly St John Rivers and groomed for a missionary life in India. What choice has she got, with Rochester outed as a would-be bigamist? She’ll cope with everything St John demands of her, the punishing work, the brutal climate. Everything except marriage. Everything, in other words, except sex with the sanctimonious Rivers – a duty he’ll perform as rigorously as any other – no doubt about that. And even this, eventually, she’ll agree to if he keeps pushing. Yes, all right then, yes, if that’s what you really want. Whatever. And then, at the moment of crisis, this…
I heard a voice somewhere cry ‘Jane! Jane! Jane!’ Nothing more. ‘Oh God! What is it?’ I gasped. I might have said ‘Where is it?’ for it did not seem in the room – nor in the house. It did not come out of the air – nor from the under the earth – nor from overhead. I had heard it – where or whence for ever impossible to know! And it was the voice of a human being – a known, loved, well-remembered voice – that of Edward Fairfax Rochester; and it spoke in pain and woe wildly, eerily, urgently.