Agnes sat by the kitchen table, her hands limp upon her lap, palms open. Her head leaned forward slightly and to one side, as if in a trance of concentration. It was, of course, not quite that. Her posture was assuming a life of its own, pulling her body slowly down, with Agnes quietly tugging the other way, her blue eyes bright with resistance. She was still able to look after herself, but not for much longer – Agnes was tired by evening and soon the slumping would encompass the day Freddie knew it but had no idea what to do, given Agnes’ refusal to involve anyone skilled or trained in her care. By default, an interim system had emerged to which Agnes did not object. Each evening a member of the family took it in turns to drop by, to make sure everything was fine before she went to bed. And Agnes cooperated not because she required their help but because she knew they needed to come.
Sitting opposite her, Lucy tipped the green beans out of the bag and began the ritual of nipping and throwing, taking off the curled ends and putting the long remaining stems into the waiting pan. Agnes watched.
‘What’s he like?’ asked Agnes, deadly calm, her eyes following the deft movements of Lucy’s fingers.
‘Older than me and younger than me at one and the same time. The past means as much to him as the future, maybe more.
‘You’ve missed one,’ said Agnes, pointing towards the pan with her head. Lucy retrieved the rogue. The soft clipping of her nails, the patter in the pan, the ticking of a clock in the hail suspended time’s nimble passing. The moment lay open, unexplored, healing, inhabited by them alone. The stray cat, no longer stray but ensconced and enthroned, idled by, surveying his subjects with transcendent scorn.
‘He’s known Mr Snyman all his life.’
Lucy glanced over to Agnes and met in her eyes the question, the plea. Lucy turned away She would not provide the answer… no, Pascal did not refer to you… I’m sorry, but he didn’t seem to know that Jacques had had a son. Instead, Lucy said, ‘Mr Snyman believes that Brionne would probably condemn Schwermann if he got the chance.’
‘Does he?’ asked Agnes, made alert. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
From somewhere immeasurably cold she said, ‘Maybe he’s right.’
Stung by her grandmother’s remark, Lucy pushed the pan across the table. Agnes lifted a wavering spoon of salt from a bowl and let the grains spill into the water.
Lucy said, ‘I’ve a small role to play in the trial. I will be there on your behalf.’ She would say nothing of her intention to confront Brionne with what she now knew and compel him to enter the courtroom. Her grandmother would discover that in the happening.
Agnes nodded, unblinking, her mouth sloping to one side. It was a smile, against the will of failing muscle and the tiny, dying engines of the nerves. Then she breathed a sort of laugh, leaned back, her face averted, and said: ‘Victor was no fool.’
Lucy boiled water, mesmerised by the rage becoming steam. It vanished in the air, to reappear upon the window, water once more, streaming down the pane, to be wiped away by Agnes.