He turns up through Chelsea, away from the river, and heads up to the park and Notting Hill. They have a large garage round the side of the house in a mews, where he pulls in. Kim has taken the children to an open day at one of her urban gardens, scraps and corners of land butting up against railway lines and disused gas holders, all being lavishly manured. She is making a speech. She is now a vice-president of the Soil Association: it all starts with the soil and spirals upward towards heaven. Their food at home comes from known sources where the farmers are kind to the soil and the crops that are grown in it and the beasts that feed contentedly on this superior fodder. They are contented until their big day when, as Joyce put it, their heads are poleaxed and their brains spill out.

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Fleur walks across the terrace. She is wearing green shorts to allow her legs to catch the sunshine, which is falling on the front of the house. At the height of summer the terrace throbs with heat. Long after the sun has gone, you can feel the trapped heat escaping from the terracotta tiles. Harry is sitting under the umbrella pines, looking out to sea. She walks over to him and puts her hand on his shoulder. He glances up at her and says something that she believes is ‘Fleur’. His face is powdery, mildewed. His eyes are laced with strings of blood.

‘Yes, darling?’

His face is contorted now and his legs in the pale-yellow trousers are mortally thin. He doesn’t answer. She sits next to him and holds his hand. His fingers are stiff; there is no answering pressure. If he knows he’s dying, is she frightening him by being here? Since she arrived yesterday his face has become more anguished, but she can’t identify the cause. He may be trying to tell her something. Or possibly he wants to ask her why she has neglected him. Even Estelle says she can no longer understand his words. He’s deteriorated in the last few weeks.

‘I’ll get some coffee, Harry, and I’ll come back very soon.’

He doesn’t react. In the house she finds Estelle.

‘He’s not good, is he?’

‘No, he’s not.’

Her demeanour is tightly under control.

‘Do you think we should call the doctor?’

‘Julian said he would speak to Mr Abbott tomorrow and see what should be done.’

‘If anything.’

‘If anything.’

They are two women doing, she thinks, what women have always done, taking charge of the dying and competing for the priestly role. A sort of solemnity has seized them. It’s uncomfortable.

‘Estelle, could you ask Chef to make some coffee. What shall we order for Harry?’