The Care and Management of Lies Read Online Free PDF Page B

though she could not remember any detail of that slip into another world. But then, when she realized she was no longer alone, Kezia’s eyes opened in a snap. She shook her head and leapt to her feet, only to find herself looking down at a man who had, it seemed, been sitting alongside her for some time.
    “And who are you, sir?” She felt as if she had fallen down a hole marked “Slumber” and was struggling to grapple her way out.
    The man laughed, leaning back on one elbow. He was dressed in twill trousers, his white shirt open at the neck and a kerchief tied at his throat. He wore a brown weskit and leather shoes that appeared to have been polished to a shine before he set off across fields of hardened ochre Kentish clay soil, picking up dust along the way.
    “It’s all right, I’m not going to take you to the constabulary. I just wondered if you realized you had encroached beyond your land.”
    “How do you know what or where my land is?” Kezia leaned forward, her hands on her hips as if to establish an impression of importance.
    Splaying his fingers on the ground to steady himself, the stranger stood up and faced her. He rubbed his earth-soiled hand on his trousers and held it out towards her.
    “Edmund Hawkes. You’re in my favorite spot—since I was a boy, actually—but I won’t scold you for it.”
    “How long were you there?”
    “And you are?”
    “I beg your pardon, sir.” Kezia took the proffered hand. “Kezia Mar . . . I mean, Kezia Brissenden.” She felt her cheeks redden. “Mrs. Tom Brissenden. From Marshals Farm.”
    “Yes, I know that much—Tom’s new wife. I guessed who you were, but I didn’t know your name. Congratulations, Mrs. Brissenden.”
    “Thank you. I apologize for the encroachment. Now I must be on my way. I will be sure not to come here again.”
    Kezia turned and knelt to pack away her book, her journal, the spent bottle, and the white linen cloth in which she’d wrapped a sandwich. Hawkes knelt next to her.
    “It’s all right, I can do it,” she said.
    They stood, facing each other.
    “Look, don’t worry—if you want to visit the lake, please, be my guest. You’re not hurting anyone,” said Hawkes. “It gives me pleasure, knowing that someone else enjoys my spot.”
    “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hawkes. But I think in future I will find plenty of interesting places within the boundary of Marshals Farm. Now I have to be on my way.”
    They shook hands once again, and Kezia set off at as fast a clip as she could manage across the field towards the stile. She turned, once, to look back. Edmund Hawkes had not moved, and was staring in her direction.
     
    T wo days later Kezia had all but forgotten the meeting. She was in the kitchen, leaning across the table, wiping it dry following another swabbing. The top was a thick, solid piece of wood akin to the block upon which the butcher would swing his cleaver to chop through flesh and sinew into bone. It was more part of the kitchen than Kezia, or her mother-in-law before her; it had been in its place for generations. Now it had been scrubbed twice this morning, ready for Kezia to knead a lump of pastry dough into topping for a meat pie. The mix was too dry, but she had yet to get the feel of different types of dough in her hands. Meat pie had become her stalwart friend, a dish she could execute without too much ado. Execute might have been an appropriate verb to describe her skill, though her dexterity in the kitchen had improved. She had studied the recipe, and was confident in her ability to prepare the dish for her husband’s tea.
    She was using leftover meat taken from a joint of beef, which she cut into cubes, pressing them into the meat grinder as she turned the handle. The grinder was screwed onto the table for this part of the job, and Kezia could never quite turn the nut tight enough on the screw—the grinder wobbled a good deal, so crumbs of meat dropped onto the floor. She fried onion and