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  Under the pressure of this smiling gaze, Alex felt obliged to say something, anything. "He's been a bit better at home."

  "Really? That's excellent." Alex wished the man would stop smiling from behind the greasepaint. Then De Sang touched Alex's elbow and stopped smiling. "Your wife, Maggie. She's a very clever, very intuitive lady. I think she's under stimulated and I think she feels undervalued."

  Alex suddenly felt some immense weight shifting on a delicate fulcrum; an entire burden of blame spilling his way. "So it's my fault, is it?"

  "Stop. Stop there. Both you and Maggie, like most people, have this incredible ability both to apportion blame and to feel blame being apportioned to you. This is not about blame. This is about life. I'm telling you this as a friend might tell you."

  "I thought this was going to be about Sam," Alex protested.

  "Of course it's about Sam. Now: shall we go and wash this stuff off our faces?"

  The next day Maggie had the freedom afforded by being able to leave Sam at the childminder's. She decided to pay a visit to Old Liz.

  It was a fifteen-mile drive to Church Haddon. Maggie found the place easily enough, parking in the street and walking the hundred yards or so to a grey tile-roofed cottage at the bottom of a cinder pathway. An old collie came to bark at her from behind a half-closed gate, and she hesitated.

  A few yards away, the door to the cottage stood partially open. Maggie waited for the commotion to summon the householder from the shadowy interior, but no one came. The dog barked furiously, blocking her way.

  Maggie looked the collie in the eye. "Don't be silly," she said, and the dog stopped barking instantly, coming from behind the gate to lick at her heels. She scratched it behind the ears, and it followed her down the path.

  In front of the house was a vegetable patch. The cottage door showed its original wood, greying beneath a coat of flaking green paint. A rusting horseshoe was nailed over the lintel, horns up. Maggie hovered nervously on the threshold. She had to fight an impulse to retreat down the path, get in her car, and drive home. She glanced over her shoulder before knocking softly on the door.

  There was no answer. She tried to peer inside, but was unable to see past the gloom of the immediate shadows. Smells hovered in the doorway; kitchen smells of bottled jams, vinegar, yeasty odours. She knocked again, a little harder.

  The door nudged open a further inch under the pressure of her knock. The shadows within seemed to deepen. Maggie waited. She set a foot on the stone threshold and took a decision to push open the door.

  "You wants to be careful."

  The voice from behind made Maggie spin round. An old woman stood square on the path not three yards away. She was leaning heavily on a stick, evidently having been watching Maggie for some moments.

  "You wants to be careful, going places you've no rights to go."

  Old Liz was a skinny, bespectacled woman, iron-grey hair tied back and folds of loose skin hanging from her face and neck, making her look like a turkey in need of fattening. She was chewing or sucking at something in her mouth. "Goin' in people's houses."

  "I'm sorry. I wasn't going in, I was just.. ."

  "I know what you was doing."

  "I thought no one was in. I was just about to go."

  The old woman said nothing. She leaned on her stick, chewing vigorously, eyeing Maggie. Her eyes were dull black beads behind the thick glass of her spectacles.

  "Ash suggested that—"

  "I knew you was a-coming."

  "Oh? Did Ash tell you then?"

  "Ash? You knows Ash, do you? No, Ash telled me nothing."

  "Oh?" Maggie said again.

  When Maggie took a step toward her, Old Liz reached down smartly and pulled up a bit of grass or herb from alongside the path, crushing it and rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. The gesture stopped Maggie in her tracks. She felt bewildered. The old woman didn't take her eyes from her for a second. A taste of bile rose in her mouth. For some reason this awful old woman frightened her. What was Ash thinking of in sending her there? She wanted to go home.

  Suddenly Old Liz seemed to relax. Then she was pointing her stick at Maggie "I sees it. It's all there, it is. But you don't even know when-the-day! You don't! Heh heh!"

  "Pardon?"

  Old Liz fastened the garden gate and then pushed past Maggie to go inside. "Yes, we knew you was a-coming all right. But it's been a time, hasn't it!"

  Maggie didn't know whether she was expected to follow, until Liz snapped at her, "Come in and shut the door behind you. You'll be lettin' all the heat out the house."

  Liz slumped into an armchair underneath a grandmother clock. Maggie couldn't sense any heat to let out; in fact it was marginally colder inside than it was outdoors. There was no fire to see, and Liz wore what must have been five layers of woollens.

  Maggie closed the door and turned to explain. "Ash, when I was in his shop in town, he told me—"

  "Never mind all that," Liz said irritably, "get that kettle a-going." She waved her stick fractionally toward the stove. Maggie did as told.

  The old woman had made the kitchen her living quarters. A door gave way on to another room behind, but it was firmly closed. Some kind of larder was curtained off near the sink where Maggie splashed water into an aluminium kettle. The kitchen had a musty smell, like bacon curing, plus another scent which Maggie quickly identified. She looked up and tied to the rafters were bunches and posies of herbs hanging to dry. There was a huge range oven in the corner of the kitchen, but it obviously wasn't operational. Maggie put the kettle on a gas stove.

  "My grandmother had one of these ranges in her kitchen." Maggie tried to make conversation. "They're lovely. They really are."

  "She did, did she?" said Liz, tapping her stick on a floor made up of off cuts and irregular lengths of ill-matching carpets. "Well, listen to this."

  And she sang a verse of song in a cracked, tuneless voice, tapping her thigh occasionally with her free hand.

  I'm a-going on me way, a-going on me way.

  I sees this I sees that, I sees what I see.

  I knows as I'll not tell a soul,

  For it's nowt to do wi' me.

  When she'd finished, Liz sat back. Maggie smiled, but Liz looked as if she didn't want her to smile. They sat in embarrassed silence. Maggie wished Ash had been there to make a proper introduction.

  "Ash, that is the man at the shop, in town—"

  "Never mind all that," said Liz. "Two beans, a bean and half a bean, another bean and half a bean again. How many?" Then she spat something from her mouth on to the rug in front of her. Maggie saw that it was, indeed, a bean.

  "I'm sure I don't know."

  "Not clever then, are you?"

  "I'm afraid I'm not."

  "Then there's those clever ones who pretend as they're not clever. You could be one o'they?"

  Maggie tried to force a smile. Then the old woman leaned forward out of her chair.

  "Two. You've two little ones. Now then, how do I know that?"

  "I'm sure I've no idea. How did you know?"

  "That kettle's a-boil," said Liz.

  Maggie made the tea. The old woman got up and stood over her, supervising with silent but intense vigilance. For a second time Maggie thought she wanted to go home. "Ash thought you might help me."

  "He's no good. He comes here, then as soon as he comes he goes away again. What's the use o' that? Eh?"

  Maggie could think of nothing to say.

  "How much will you give me?" said Liz suddenly. Maggie was taken aback by this directness. Liz chuckled. "I'm just kiddin' on. I always say that to Ash. Heh heh. How much will you give me? I always say. And he says, as much as you want. Heh heh, that's a good 'un ain't it? As much as you want. You can say it. Say: as much as you want."

  "As much as you want."

  "Heh heh heh!" Liz thought this was hilarious. Then she turned serious, and said sharply, "Listen here, missie; I've never had anything as I haven't earned. So you be ca
reful."

  Maggie didn't know what offence she might have given. "I am careful."

  "Yes, you're a one, I can see that. Liz can see that, but it's clear you ain't all released. You don't know when-the-day."

  "Sorry?'

  "You ain't expressed at all. Not released. Though I sees you are a one."

  "A one what?"

  "Don't try and kid on at Liz, because you're just a girl. A slip."

  Maggie relaxed for the first time since entering the cottage. "Do you mean—"

  "Hoi!" Liz silenced her with a wave of her stick. "None o' that."

  Liz's eccentricity made Maggie smile. She shook her head, as if trying to flick away the very charm of the old woman's strangeness. "All right. What do you mean by saying I'm not released?"

  Liz dropped her stick and slowly put her arms round her own shoulders, hugging herself. She lifted up her knees and hugged them into herself as far as she could, old limbs parodying the younger woman opposite. Liz was grinning and blinking at Maggie from behind her spectacles.

  "I'm doing my best!"

  Liz unfolded herself. "Your best might not be enough for what's at call."

  "And what is at call?"

  "You tell me."

  "Ash thought you might help me with the flying ointment."

  "Pssshhttttt!" Liz dismissed her with a wave of the hand and looked away.

  "Will you?" Maggie said after a while.

  "Listen to this:

  I'm a-going on me way, a-going on me way.

  I sees this I sees that, I sees what I see.

  I knows as I'll not tell a soul,

  For it's nowt to do wi' me."

  Liz sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. Within seconds she was asleep and snoring gently.

  Maggie sipped her tea. The grandmother clock ticked on over Liz's head, the heavy pendulum swinging from side to side. Maggie felt extraordinarily drowsy herself. She had to resist a temptation to close her eyes. The old lady slept on in the chair, still grasping her walking stick. Maggie was tempted just to get up and leave, but thought it too ill-mannered. She sat, and waited silently.

  Presently Liz opened one eye and looked at her. She roused herself in her chair. "If you draw that curtain back," she said indicating the larder, "you can pour us a glass of elderberry wine."

  "I can't." Maggie looked at the clock. "I've got to pick up my little boy in half an hour or there'll be hell to pay."

  "Eh? Got to go? What's the point of comin’ 'ere at all if you've got to go?"

  "Cant be helped." She stood up.

  "You comin' again tomorrow?"

  "Can't."

  "Go on then. Bugger off," said Liz.

  Maggie turned at the door. "Can I come back again next week?"

  "You just bugger off," said Liz, looking hard at the wall.

  Maggie let herself out. She stopped at the gate to take a breath before walking back to her car, uncertain whether to feel amused or irritated by the old woman. Certainly the meeting hadn't produced the help and guidance she was looking for.

  She wasn't looking for an explanation necessarily, but for a context, a framework for understanding. The inspirational message about where to dig in the castle grounds had left her feeling a little too pleased with herself. She hadn't felt the need to question it. But the sexual frenzy of the other evening had astonished even her. It was not as if something had taken her over; she was not possessed. On the contrary, she'd remained ultimately in control of what was happening. But the ferocity of the power which had suddenly been made available to her had genuinely shocked her.

  Liz had not been able to offer her anything. Old people want to talk, Maggie thought as she drove home, but they don't want to listen, or respond, or give. Liz wasn't so much different from many very elderly people she'd met, half senile, self-absorbed, cantankerous, demanding.

  She resolved not to bother the old woman again.

  SEVENTEEN

  "I was talking to Mr. De Sang," said Alex.

  "Oh, yes?"

  "He's got some interesting views."

  "Yes?" said Maggie. The children were in bed. The fire was dying in the grate and Dot commanded her usual position stretched before it, twitching occasionally in her dog dreams.

  "He was talking about something he called projection. Do you know what that is?"

  "You're about to tell me."

  "When Sam feels upset by his mum and dad arguing, he naturally projects a threat to his security and happiness. He then deals with this projection by contradicting everything, or by bad behaviour, in order to get the attention and security he really needs."

  "It's a neat enough theory."

  "Similarly," said Alex, "when Maggie feels unhappy, she contemplates separation or even infidelity. But she can't admit this to herself, so she projects this on her husband."

  "De Sang told you that?"

  "No. I'm just trying to work things out."

  "I see. The name of the game is Alex has found a new word."

  "Don't be angry. I'm trying to help."

  "This is not a good way of doing it."

  "Got a better idea?"

  "Yes. Come for a walk with me. Now."

  "It's after eleven!"

  "All the more reason to go. When did we last take a midnight stroll? There's a beautiful new moon out. Can't you see how important it is to do new things? Walk under a new moon? Strip the scales off our eyes?"

  "Why?"

  "Because I want to show you things! You always used to be the one to show me things, and now I want to show you things. We need it. We need to share things. When did we stop sharing things? When did we stop caring about what's happening inside each other's head? When did we stop watching for each other's reactions?"

  "We don't need to go outside to do that."

  "Oh, come on, Alex! The world is a different place at midnight. There's a power to it."

  "It's impossible! What about the kids?"

  "Wake them up! We'll take 'em with us."

  "What's the matter with you? Amy's got school in the morning."

  "They'll both learn more this way. Life doesn't have to be lived by timetable!"

  "For Christ's sake. I'm going to bed."

  He left Maggie pleading to an empty room and went upstairs. Moments later he heard the front door click shut. He looked out of the window and saw her get into the car, accompanied by a sleepy but happy-looking Dot.

  Maggie parked the car and the crescent of the new moon afforded enough light for her to pick a path through the woods, with Dot snuffling at the damp, leafy way ahead. She had an inventory of plants and herbs to gather from the hedgerows at the perimeter of the woods, but first she wanted to collect something more mercurial: a sensation of the trees at night, an impression of dark places.

  The new moon glimpsed through the trees was white, waxy, and maiden. Her crescent was turned upwards, like a pair of horns; her light traced delicate patterns on the leaves of the trees, running moist between shadows. The wood was a plane of silver and black, a newly minted world. The cool night fanned Maggie's face. Her skin was silver, the dog was silver, and the east-facing boughs of the trees were illuminated, all half-plated with dull silver, generating a soft lustre. Maggie encroached deeper into the woods.

  There was no sound. The earth swallowed their footfalls, and even Dot trotted on in an envelope of shining silence. The absence of sound conferred a visual intensity: trees stood in ranks making outlandish gestures, like spectators arrayed along the path; huge fungi festooned along fallen trunks were pumped full of intoxicant night air; bracken heads coiled like snakes. The night was spinning something of itself on an unseen wheel, something fine, elusive. Maggie stopped and listened. Dot stopped.

  There was a presence in the woods.

  It was like a low breathing, of trees exhaling. Far off, a dog fox barked, three times. Dot's hackles rose, and Maggie felt her own flesh ripple, and the hair stirred on her neck. It was like a signal, and her body was answering
. A call, indicating they were in the presence of something magnificent, something holy and terrifying.

  Maggie had been holding her breath. Her throat was constricted. She released a sigh, hardly daring to disturb the stillness. The trees rustled in answer; they shivered, and the rustle of leaves on the uppermost branches was like the swirl of a cape as the breathing came closer. Dot lay down on her belly and put her head between her legs. Maggie wanted to do the same: fling herself on the ground and hide her head. The hair on the nape of her neck bristled. Her skin crawled.

  But she knew she must stand tall and win the respect of whatever was out there. A voice came into her head.

  Just to look at you.

  Then a perfume, streaming from the earth. Not merely the moist wood smells, the decay of leaf, of fungus and bark, not just that which was always there. Something else. A spice, some bright herb, a mother earth smell; a signal-scent, property of the presence arrayed in the woods before her, behind her, all about. A hot wave flushed over her, followed by a chill.

  Maggie was paralyzed. The moonlight in the woods flared momentarily, became a ring of silver fire all around her. A drop of dew—one brilliant, tiny, concentrated sphere of moonlight— dropped from a leaf and splashed her forehead. She was anointed. She tipped back her head and opened her mouth, and a second drop, like a silver coin, was placed on her tongue.

  A name came to her, and she knew now in whose presence she stood. It was a name she had come across in the diary. It rippled free from some place deep inside her and presented itself on her tongue.

  It was a name which had meant little to her when she'd first seen it, but which now magically summarized the moment in all its fullness. To state the name was to state the nature. The tree branches swirling like a dark cape confirmed her presence. The moon's horned coronet. The earth-spiced perfume and the holy ring of silver flame. The anointing, the gift. She had been granted speech.