He simply turned his back on her, his manner leaving her in no doubt that the true cause of the breakdown of their previously close relationship remained something he was not prepared even to discuss.
She made a decision then — on the spur of the moment, but probably the thought had been lurking. Suddenly it seemed inevitable.
‘I don’t think I can bear being here any longer,’ she said abruptly. ‘I think it would be better if I moved out. This can’t go on...’
He interrupted her then, still with his back to her.
‘If that’s what you want, fine. You can have the cottage over at Dingwell. It’s been empty since old Percy died.’
He spoke so quickly, the solution so readily at hand. Constance had little doubt that the thought must already have been in his mind. She had no fight left. She simply nodded her head.
‘I’ll get it organised straight away. If you’re going, then the sooner the better.’
To Constance, the words, which had been half-snarled at her, seemed like a slap across the face. Only much, much more painful.
William downed his coffee and left the kitchen without speaking again. As soon as he had gone from the room Constance slumped on to the table, buried her head in her hands and let the tears fall freely.
Her only son was revolted by her. It was virtually unendurable.
William moved fast. Dingwell was made ready within two days.
Harley Phillips — who, with his one good arm and the other continuing to heal well, could by now drive his van, an automatic — had been called in to help her move. His ribs were almost as good as new, and he was big enough and strong enough to be able to shift and carry with one hand more than a lot of men could manage with two.
In any case, Constance expressed no desire to take anything much with her — except her dog, of course. But nobody, not even William, would have expected her to leave Josh behind.
She was, she said, quite happy with the few bits of old Percy’s furniture which were still in the cottage. And most of what she was taking with her, including her clothes, were being moved simply because William had made it quite clear that he no longer wanted them in the house once she had gone.
Harley had been told simply that Constance had decided to give William his independence at the farm, and if he noticed the strain between mother and son, verging on open hostility on William’s side, Harley gave no sign of it.
Charlotte, however, was not so easily sopped. Her mother had told her much the same story as she and William had told Harley, and added that she felt she could no longer live among all the memories at the farm.
‘I’m perfectly content, dear, believe me,’ said her mother in a tone of voice which indicated almost anything but contentment. ‘I need to get away from the past. It’s for the best, really.’
Charlotte was not convinced. She felt sure there was more to it than that, but when she confronted William she was met with the same intransigence.
‘Mother has told you why she doesn’t want to live in the farmhouse any more, I have told you too, why can’t you leave it at that?’ he asked her.
‘Because I want to know what the bloody hell is going on between you two, William, and it’s time one of you told me, it really is.’
Charlotte was very upset, more upset than she had been since the night she learned the news of her father’s death.
William regarded her coolly. It was, of course, a strained time for all of them, but Charlotte had noticed her brother hardly ever smiled nowadays. That was understandable, of course. Following the death of their father and the stress they were all under. But it was more than that. Charlotte was sure of it. Every bit of William’s old warmth and humour had left him.
‘Nothing is going on, Charlotte, stop being ridiculous.’
William’s voice was flat and expressionless, and his manner left his sister in no doubt that she was going to get nothing more from him.
Charlotte felt very alone and very afraid. Her wonderful family was falling apart all around her. Her mother seemed to have turned into some kind of zombie and her brother had become a stranger to her.
How she longed for her father. How she longed for things to be the way they had been before.
In the small front bedroom of Dingwell Cottage, Constance looked out through the window across acres of greenly rolling Somerset and began to think that it really was all for the best to be away from William. Every time she saw him, every time she was faced with his coldness towards her, it hurt desperately. She needed to think, and here at least, she reflected, she might be able to do that and even to find a little peace — if only for a short time.
But not yet, it seemed, she thought with a groan as she spotted Marcia Spry on her old black bicycle coasting down the hill towards the cottage. Not for the first time Constance, who had only just arrived at Dingwell, marvelled at the older woman’s intelligence sources. Freddie had always said that if Marcia Spry had been employed as a spy during the Cold War the rest of MI5 would have become instantly redundant. In spite of everything, Constance smiled at the memory, then she hurried downstairs to deflect the old busybody. She really couldn’t cope with Marcia on top of everything else.
Outside Josh was barking his head off — he’d never liked Marcia Spry either. Harley was still unloading his van — his name had not led him ever to share his father’s enthusiasm for motorbikes — and as she opened the front door Constance heard the incorrigible Marcia remark with a certain relish to the rather bewildered-looking young man, ‘’Er’s ’eading for a breakdown, ’er be, no doubt about it, mark my words...’
God, the woman really was impossible, Constance thought. Her cheek had to be admired though. Presumably hearing the door open, Marcia turned to see the subject of her latest diatribe approaching her and, barely pausing for breath, it seemed to Constance, continued to speak, her voice now full of false concern.
‘Oh, Mrs Lange, there you be, I came over to see if ’ee could do with an ’and. Always that much work, moving ’ouse. I just came to ’elp.’
Constance looked her up and down. Harley had reddened slightly in embarrassment and was shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. Marcia Spry had probably never had the sensitivity to experience embarrassment in the whole of her life, Constance thought. She shivered as the chill of the day engulfed her. The snow from what had been the one brief fall of the winter so far had completely cleared, but there was an icy wind blowing in from the direction of Exmoor. Marcia Spry was muffled against the cold. Her slightly pointed nose protruded a vividly gleaming red from the depths of the woollen scarf wound around her head, and her unashamed eagerness to be involved, to learn all that she could about what was going on, shone almost as brightly.
‘Miss Spry,’ said Constance, who would normally have addressed the woman as Marcia, but was well aware of the impact of formal address on the right occasion. ‘Miss Spry, knowing what I can hardly avoid knowing about your frequently expressed opinion of me, I would have thought I would be the last person in the world you would ever seek to help. So would you please go away and leave me alone. You are a malicious old woman and I really want nothing more to do with you.’
For the first time in months Constance felt quite pleased with herself. That had been a flash of the old Constance and she had almost enjoyed it. She had even managed to keep her voice firm and controlled. There were some advantages even in the depths of despair, even when you reach the lowest ebb of all, she realised. She had spoken sharply to Marcia Spry once or twice over the years, but never before had she felt able to tell her quite so bluntly exactly what she really thought of her. And to send her packing, too.