Her husband, having laid the brief communication from their daughter on the television set, was staring gloomily into a mirror over the fireplace.
‘What’s it a sign of when policemen start looking older?’
‘That their wives are extremely hungry.’
‘Is that a fact?’ He smiled at her in the glass, turned, made his way to the kitchen. ‘Did you get everything?’
‘Nearly. I bought fromage frais though, instead of double cream.’
Expecting a rebuke, she was surprised when he said, ‘Good. I won’t use butter either.’
‘Tom?’ He was wrapping a blue-and-white striped tablier around his middle and didn’t look at her. It barely met round the back. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Come on.’
‘What?’
‘Something’s happened.’
‘No.’
Barnaby set out his materials and batterie de cuisine. Copper bowl and pan. Whisk, kitchen scissors. Brown free-range eggs, smoked salmon, a day-old cob of French bread, pot of chives.
Best not to tell her. She would worry and fret and it wasn’t as if he was not already mending his ways. When the case was over he would go back to the doc. Get his progress monitored. Start taking proper care of himself. Maybe even do a spot of exercise.
‘Shall I wash the watercress?’
‘Pour me a drink first, Joycey.’
‘If you have it now you can’t have wine with your meal.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘She opened the fridge, which was half full of glasses. Tom preferred a cold container to cold wine, saying he never had the patience to wait for the latter to warm up sufficiently to release its scents and savours whereas, the other way, within seconds the wine was just right.
Joyce opened a bottle of ’91 Gran Vina Sol. Barnaby, scissoring open the salmon packet said, ‘If I can only have one glass you might at least fill it up.’
‘Any fuller and it’ll spill when you lift it.’
‘So I’ll lap. Which reminds me - where is our guzzly little scumbag?’
‘Tom!’ She put some bread in the toaster before turning on the cold tap and holding watercress in the clear stream. ‘You know you like him really.’
‘I do not “like him really”.’ He covered strips of fish with fromage frais. ‘I want him to pack his clobber in a red-spotted handkerchief, tie it on the end of a stick and sling his hook.’ Barnaby drank deeply. Only once but with great relish. ‘Ohh . . . wonderful. This is wonderful. Try some.’
‘Hang on.’ She patted the watercress dry before sipping at her drink. ‘Mmm . . . nice. But I preferred the other stuff. The one that smells of elderflowers.’
Barnaby whisked the eggs and tipped them into the pan saying, as he did so, ‘Watch the toast.’
When it was crisp and pale gold Joyce painted all the slices thinly with low-fat spread.
‘Aren’t you having butter?’ He tipped the salmon and chive snippings into the pan and agitated the wooden spoon, easing moist curls of scrambled egg from the sides and bottom of the pan.
Joyce said, ‘Seems a bit flaunty when you can’t.’
‘Don’t be silly. No point in both of us fading away.’
I can hack this calorie caper, decided Barnaby, sitting now at the table, his mouth full of peppery cress, creamy eggs and golden wine. It’s all a question of attitude. I’ve been looking at it from quite the wrong angle. Like a prisoner facing a life sentence. In fact the only meal you need to diet at is the one you’re eating. All the rest can be as fattening as you like. By the time he started on his huge, fat Comice pear and tiny shred of Dolcelatte he was feeling not merely resigned but almost content.
Joyce made some excellent Blue Mountain coffee and, after she had poured it out, stood behind her husband’s chair, slid her smooth, soft arms around his neck and laid her cheek against his.
Barnaby turned his head, showing pleasure, wamth, a faint surprise. They kissed at some length like dear, close friends who were in love. Which is what they were.
‘What’s brought this on?’
‘Good grief, Tom. Don’t make it sound as if there has to be an R in the month.’
What had brought it on? That rapid disclaimer against her concerned question? That lying disclaimer. For that something had occurred to make him aware of his own mortality she had no doubt. He would tell her eventually, when he thought the danger was past. He always did.
Joyce experienced a vivid recollection. Herself at nineteen. A first-year concert at the Guildhall. Afterwards, on the fringe of a milling crowd of students, teachers, proud parents and friends, a slim young copper, ill at ease and hopelessly out of place, clutching a bunch of flowers. Waiting with dogged patience for his turn to be noticed.