As The Pig Turns

at home.’
    James looked surprised and taken aback, remembering the days when Agatha would have jumped at an invitation from him. It was a good thing George had turned out to be all right. Agatha was obviously in the grip of one of her obsessions.
    ‘Are you still working on Agatha’s jungle?’ he asked.
    ‘Just about finished,’ said George, ‘apart from a bit of maintenance.’
    ‘Finished your lunch?’ said James. ‘I’ll follow you back and show you my garden.’
    At James’s cottage, Agatha longed to follow them in but did not want to appear too pushy. Men could smell needy across two continents, she thought bitterly.
    Charles turned up on her doorstep in the early evening.
    ‘You can’t stay,’ said Agatha quickly.
    ‘Why?’
    ‘I’ve brought a lot of work home from the office and I don’t want to be disturbed.’
    ‘May I have a drink before you push me out?’
    ‘Okay. What?’
    ‘Whisky and water.’
    ‘Right. Take a seat in the garden.’
    Agatha realized as she returned with the drinks that she should never have allowed Charles into the garden.
    ‘The place looks beautiful,’ he said. ‘Got a new gardener?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘What’s he like?’
    ‘Oh, the usual. Grumpy and old, but he does good work.’
    Charles found Agatha’s conversation practically monosyllabic and finally got up to leave. ‘See you soon,’ he said.
    ‘Phone first!’ said Agatha sharply.
    ‘Come on, Aggie. Who is he?’
    ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    ‘It’s Saturday. You’re perfectly made up and that must be the shortest skirt in your wardrobe, not to mention the highest heels.’
    ‘You’re being silly. Just go.’
    Charles was getting into his car when he noticed James standing talking to an extremely handsome man. He strolled over. James made the introductions. ‘We’re both old army men,’ said James, ‘and we’ve been talking most of the day. George has moved into the village. He’s done Agatha’s garden and he’s going to do mine.’
    ‘Really?’ said Charles. ‘Now, that is interesting.’
    ‘Why?’ asked George.
    ‘Oh, nothing.’ But Charles exchanged a sneaking glance with James. It looked as if Agatha was heading for one of her obsessions.
    As soon as he had gone, Agatha kicked off her high heels and wriggled her toes. She must make more work for George. He said he did carpentry.
    She went upstairs and put on a pair of sneakers, shorts and an old shirt blouse. Then she went downstairs and out into the garden, her cats scampering after her. In the shed, she took out a heavy sledgehammer and a saw and then returned to her sitting room, leaving the cats shut out in the garden.
    In her sitting room, along one wall, was a set of wooden bookshelves. She carefully began to take down all the books and pile them on the floor. Then she attacked the shelves with the sledgehammer. They had been well made and she was exhausted by the time she had reduced only half of them to splintered piles of timber.
    A ring at the doorbell made her start guiltily. She firmly shut the sitting-room door and answered the front door. ‘Oh, Mrs Bloxby,’ said Agatha. ‘What’s up?’
    ‘Just a social call. You look all hot and dusty.’
    ‘Just clearing out some old books. Come in. Go through to the garden and I’ll bring you a sherry.’
    ‘It’s turned a bit cold,’ said Mrs Bloxby.
    ‘Then go to the kitchen,’ snapped Agatha, wishing she hadn’t let her friend in. But her car was outside, and if Mrs Bloxby had not received any reply, she would have started to worry.
    Agatha came back with a glass of sherry. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. I’ve got to wash my hands. Sorry. Should have done that before I served you sherry, but it’s just paper dust.’
    Mrs Bloxby waited until Agatha had gone upstairs. She looked through the open door of the kitchen to the firmly closed door of the sitting room. Why had Mrs Raisin looked so furtive ?
    On impulse, she moved quietly across the hall and opened the sitting-room door. She gazed in horror at the mess, at the splintered and shattered bookshelves, before retreating quickly to the kitchen.
    She remembered that George Marston had put up a notice in the local shop announcing he did carpentry as well as gardening.
    Oh, Mrs Raisin, thought Mrs Bloxby sadly, the things you do for love. And where is this obsession going to lead?