In Little Wickham people are mowing their lawns. It is a clear Sunday afternoon and the village buzzes like a nest of hornets. Mr Bradshaw pushes his mower around his garden along with the rest. The lawn at the back of the house is undulating: it rises like a woman’s body into two mounds with a soft sloping space between them. The mower moves firmly over its contours, up and down, with Mr Bradshaw’s hands on the bar. His feet tread rhythmically in a shorn passage that is always renewing itself. He has a feeling of domination as he goes over the tender flanks and creases. Afterwards the grass is smooth. He cleans the mower and returns it to its shed.
It is four o’clock and his wife has not returned from the hospice committee lunch. The sky is flushed with pink; the swallows swoop around the telegraph poles. The rooks are already calling across the fields, above the sound of the last mower. It is Gus Robertson’s, outlasting the rest as though to advertise the size of his domain. Mr Bradshaw can see him through the screen of trees, sitting on his ride-on. It is brilliantly new, as big as a small tractor. He rides it passionlessly, staring straight ahead. Mr Bradshaw has not seen this mower before: it causes him a pang of betrayal to see it, as though he has witnessed Gus in an act of disloyalty. Sometimes it seems that Mr Bradshaw has only to hear of a new gimmick for the Robertsons to own it. It is unsettling, to be among people who are always interfering with what they have, who seem to proclaim their indifference to others by changing what is familiar about themselves.
Recently the Robertsons installed a pump and waterway feeding into their pond: when you switch the pump on, the waterway becomes a running stream. The Bradshaws were invited to observe this ceremony, and stood on the lawn while Gus dashed about checking the supply and drainage, his white, well-styled eave of hair flopping up and down. He is a handsome man for his age, tall and trim, suntanned, perfectly groomed; and yet watching the electronic stream trickling down into the plastic-lined lily pond, Mr Bradshaw gave birth to the perception that Gus is tragic, not because of his vanity or ostentation but because of his poor taste. It is something Gus will perhaps never know about himself, but it has been an important and liberating realisation for Mr Bradshaw. The new mower, however, is a blow. Brash and ugly though it is, he nonetheless feels, lover-like, that Gus has been unfaithful.
At a quarter to five she comes, with Flossie at her heels. She comes around the path at the side of the house, where Mr Bradshaw is pulling weeds out of the gravel.
‘Oh!’ she cries. ‘I thought I’d never get away! They simply wouldn’t stop talking – have you had tea?’
‘No,’ he says, without looking up. ‘You said you’d be back by three, so I waited.’
‘Charles, you didn’t!’
‘Tea is at four,’ he says. ‘It didn’t seem unreasonable to expect you to be back by then.’
‘Oh dear – oh, I am sorry. You must be parched!’
‘I started mowing at three in order to be finished by four.’
‘And in the hot sun too!’ she wails. ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t just get yourself a cup.’
‘You said you’d be here. It seemed sensible to wait.’
He is parched, and when he straightens up from stooping over the gravel he is slightly dizzy. She stands there with flushed cheeks, her mouth drooping at the corners. Sometimes he forgets that he and she are old, and then the sight of her reminds him.
‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘I’ll make it now.’
‘I don’t want it now. I don’t like to have tea later than four. It spoils my supper.’
‘But you can’t just go without!’
‘I’d rather go without now. As I said, it spoils my supper.’
He bends down again with his trowel. He can see her feet beside him on the gravel path, the ropes of blue veins, the calloused toes bunched in her sandals. He wonders what she will do. The air between them seems to tremble; the atmosphere is a dark bud straining to burst into flower. He wants its offering, of love or violence. He wants to be located in the maze of his own rigidity and offered something. That is the test, as it has always been.
‘I don’t see why we can’t just have supper later,’ she says.
He does not reply. This is not what she ought to have said. It leaves him in the maze; it asks him to find his own way out.
‘Well,’ she says presently, ‘well, I suppose I shall have to have mine on my own.’
He hears her crunch away. She is gone. He feels the presence of a terrible void, advancing on him, coldly enveloping him. It is silence: Gus has turned his mower off. Later he hears her return through the dusk to where he still bends over the gravel, weeding. She places a cup of tea at his feet with two bourbon biscuits in the saucer, and then swiftly she is gone again. The biscuits are his favourite kind. He watches them out of the corner of his eye as he works; he meditates on them darkly. They have, he decides, been spoilt. He has been separated forever from their sweetness. He lets the tea go cold. When it grows dark he returns to the house and pours it down the sink, and places the biscuits back in their tin.