As The Pig Turns

sun is over the yardarm or whatever. I’m going to have a gin and tonic. What about you?’
    ‘I’ll have the same.’
    They sat over their drinks in the garden. It was a beautiful Cotswold day, with fleecy clouds drifting against a dark blue sky.
    There came a ring at the doorbell. Roy shot to his feet. ‘I’ll get it!’
    Agatha waited, suddenly glad of the diversion.
    Roy entered the garden followed by a tall man. Agatha was wearing sunglasses. She took them off and stared at the vision before her.
    George Marston was over six feet tall, with thick grey blond hair and green eyes in a square, tanned face. His body under his dress of chinos and sweatshirt looked muscular.
    Agatha rose to her feet. ‘Roy, get Mr Marston a drink. I have to go upstairs.’
    Putting on an extra layer of make-up, thought Roy.
    Agatha scrubbed off her make-up and carefully applied a new layer. She slipped out of the loose cotton dress she had been wearing and changed into a gingham blouse, tight jeans and wedge-heeled sandals. She looked in the mirror. Country but sexy, she thought with satisfaction. There was a lot to be said for fear and misery. One lost weight. She went back downstairs.
    ‘Now, Mr Marston . . .’
    ‘George, please.’
    ‘George. I run a detective agency and recently have been under threat, so don’t think me rude if I ask you a lot of questions.’
    He smiled. Agatha’s heart gave a lurch. ‘Fire away,’ he said.
    ‘First of all, what is your background?’
    ‘I was in the army.’
    ‘For how long?’
    ‘Twenty years.’
    ‘When did you leave?’
    ‘Eight months ago.’
    ‘May I ask why?’
    ‘Certainly.’ He rolled up his left trouser leg, showing an artificial limb. ‘Present from Afghanistan,’ he said.
    ‘How awful,’ said Agatha.
    ‘It’s all right. I’ve got used to it. I’m good at all sorts of things – carpentry, gardening, things like that.’
    ‘Well, I see no reason why you don’t join me for a drink and then you can start right away. What are your rates?’
    ‘Eight pounds an hour.’
    ‘I feel obliged to tell you that the going rate in Carsely is ten pounds an hour.’
    ‘To be frank,’ he said, ‘I need the work and thought I would get it if I were a little bit cheaper.’
    ‘We’ll see how you go,’ said Agatha. ‘If your work is okay, you can earn the going rate. Now, what would you like to drink?’
    ‘Is that gin and tonic? I’d like one of those. I see an ashtray on the table. Mind if I smoke?’
    ‘Of course not. I smoke myself. Roy, be an angel and get George a drink.’
    When Roy had gone indoors, George settled in a chair and said, ‘Isn’t that the young man who was kidnapped?’
    ‘Yes. The whole thing has been frightening and I’m just getting over it.’
    ‘Tell me about it.’
    So Agatha did, while Roy returned with George’s drink and then sat in sulky silence, feeling he was being ignored.
    ‘You’ve certainly been through the wars,’ he said when Agatha had finished. ‘Look, if you don’t mind, I’ll get started.’
    ‘The gardening things and the mower are all in the shed at the bottom of the garden,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll show you.’
    He worked all weekend. Roy complained that he had been ignored because Agatha could hardly bear to leave the house, preferring to sit out in the garden and admire her new acquisition.
    ‘Don’t fall for him,’ warned Roy when he left. ‘I mean, what a cliché!’
    ‘What are you talking about?’
    ‘Middle-aged woman lusts after gardener.’
    ‘Don’t be silly.’
    When Agatha returned to her cottage, she had an impulse to invite George out for dinner. If Charles had turned up or if James had returned home, she would have decided against it. But she felt lonely.
    The garden was being rapidly restored. George was putting away the tools in the shed when Agatha called to him, ‘Like a drink?’
    ‘A cold beer would be lovely if you have one.’
    Agatha found one at the back of the fridge and filled a glass.
    ‘Are you married?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘I was once. Don’t want to talk about it.’
    ‘Children?’
    ‘No. Let’s talk about the garden. It won’t take me long to get it in shape for the autumn.’ He drained his glass. Agatha paid him. ‘Isn’t this too much?’ he asked.
    ‘No, your work is good, so you get the going rate.’
    ‘If I keep the shed keys, then I can get into the garden by the path at the side of the house and I won’t need to disturb you.’
    ‘That’s