Percival novel · Chapter 9 of 24

Chapter 9: Four Years

Maisie was peeling potatoes in the kitchen at six the next morning, and she did not look up.

"Good morning, June."

"You hung the number upside down."

"I did."

"Three weeks ago."

"Every Christmas a bag of lemons turned up at your door," said Maisie, and peeled another potato. "You thought it was the kitchen. It was him, and he made me swear not to say. I'm fifty-eight. I haven't got another four years to wait."

I opened my mouth and shut it.

"Go on," she said. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You could have told me."

"You wouldn't have gone into the room if I'd told you. You'd have made a spreadsheet." She waved the knife. "Now go and get your four years back. Mr. Wolcott is in the greenhouse."

"How do you know?"

"He's been there since five. He looks like a man waiting for a sentence."

The greenhouse stands behind the kitchen wing, built of old iron and glass.

It is the one place at Greyholt where Percival keeps something that is not a secret.

Inside, it is warm and wet and green, and it smells of earth and lemon.

He grows citrus.

There were nine small trees in tubs along the central aisle, with fruit hanging gold in the early light.

He was standing in front of the oldest one, with his sleeves rolled to the elbow and a pair of shears in his hand.

He turned when the door opened, and I saw him go still.

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