He looked at her stupidly. ‘My car?’

‘Yes, your car. How else will we get all the way to Cornwall?’

‘But we’re not going by car. There’s a sleeper booked on Friday’s overnight train. That’s why I’m here – to go through the arrangements—’ 48

‘No, no, no,’ she interrupted him. ‘Friday is too late. I’ve spoken to my astrologer, and he tells me we must leave sooner. My luggage will be sent on, of course, so shall I expect you here straight after breakfast?’

‘Driving down really isn’t sensible in this weather. It’s such a long way, and we’d have to break the journey.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘There are no hotels outside London?’

‘Of course there are, but—’

‘Then that is what we will do. Go home and pack, Mr Penrose. I’m not in the mood to be sensible, and being a long way away is exactly the point.’

49

7

Richard Hartley put his head round the living room door to make sure that his wife was still dozing by the fire, then went quietly upstairs. He shut himself in their bedroom and set about repacking the suitcases that Angela had so carefully prepared the night before, removing the summer things that should have been stowed away at the end of the season; the outmoded dress that she hadn’t worn for years but was still sentimental about; the ill-matching ties and socks. There was far too much luggage for three nights, so he put everything back where it belonged as quickly as he could, then set one suitcase aside to return to the box room. He had only just finished choosing clothes more suitable for the weekend when he heard footsteps on the stairs and her voice at the door.

‘Is everything all right, Richard?’

Angela looked anxiously at the freshly packed cases, and he saw the familiar uncertainty in her eyes, the lack of confidence in her ability to do the simplest of tasks which never failed to break his heart. ‘Perfectly all right, my dear,’ he said reassuringly, hating the brightness in his tone which seemed so necessary and yet so false; they had never spoken to each other like this when she was well. ‘I was just making sure I’d got my tippet, but you’ve already packed it. As usual, you’re one step ahead of me.’

She smiled, like a child who had been praised by the adult she most wanted to please, and he prayed that only 50he was aware of how much their marriage had changed. He remembered so clearly the first indication that something was wrong – five years ago now, when they were still living in London. It had been such an ordinary day – he at home in his study, working on his sermon for the weekend, while Angela went to a committee meeting for one of the charities to which she gave so much energy. At five o’clock, just when he was beginning to worry about her, the telephone rang and he heard her anxious voice at the end of the line, tearful because she couldn’t find her way home. It was a route she had taken for years, little more than a mile through a handful of streets that she knew like the back of her hand – and yet she had been walking for hours, too ashamed at first to admit that she couldn’t remember where she lived. In the end, he had gone out to find her, and their silent walk home through the fog of a November evening had seemed such a cruel metaphor for what lay ahead.