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But Ruth was distracted。
‘Paul； your hair’s pletely matted at the back。 Have you brushed it at all？’
She pulled a hairbrush from her handbag and pushed it into her younger son’s hand。
‘No warning signs or anything？’ asked Simon； as Paul dragged the brush through the thick mop of his hair。
‘He’d had a bad headache for a couple of days； apparently。’
‘Ah；’ said Simon； chewing toast。 ‘And he ignored it？’
‘Oh； yes； he didn’t think anything of it。’
Simon swallowed。
‘Goes to show； doesn’t it？’ he said portentously。 ‘Got to watch yourself。’
That’s wise； thought Andrew； with furious contempt； that’s profound。 So it was Barry Fairbrother’s own fault his brain had burst open。 You self…satisfied fucker； Andrew told his father； loudly； inside his own head。
Simon pointed his knife at his elder son and said； ‘Oh； and by the way。 He’s going to be getting a job。 Old Pizza Face there。’
Startled； Ruth turned from her husband to her son。 Andrew’s acne stood out； livid and shiny； from his empurpling cheek； as he stared down into his bowl of beige mush。
‘Yeah；’ said Simon。 ‘Lazy little shit’s going to start earning some money。 If he wants to smoke； he can pay for it out of his own wages。 No more pocket money。’
‘Andrew！’ wailed Ruth。 ‘You haven’t been—？’
‘Oh； yes； he has。 I caught him in the woodshed；’ said Simon； his expression a distillation of spite。
‘Andrew！’
‘No more money from us。 You want fags； you buy ’em；’ said Simon。
‘But we said；’ whimpered Ruth； ‘we said； with his exams ing—’
‘Judging by the way he fucked up his mocks； we’ll be lucky if he gets any qualifications。 He can get himself out to McDonald’s early； get some experience；’ said Simon； standing up and pushing in his chair； relishing the sight of Andrew’s hanging head； the dark pimpled edge of his face。 ‘Because we’re not supporting you through any resits； pal。 It’s now or never。’
‘Oh； Simon；’ said Ruth reproachfully。
‘What？’
Simon took two stamping steps towards his wife。 Ruth shrank back against the sink。 The pink plastic brush fell out of Paul’s hand。
‘I’m not going to fund the little fucker’s filthy habit！ Fucking cheek of him； puffing away in my fucking shed！’
Simon hit himself on the chest on the word ‘my’； the dull thunk made Ruth wince。
‘I was bringing home a salary when I was that spotty little shit’s age。 If he wants fags； he can pay for them himself； all right？ All right？’
He had thrust his face to within six inches of Ruth’s。
‘Yes； Simon；’ she said very quietly。
Andrew’s bowels seemed to have bee liquid。 He had made a vow to himself not ten days previously： had the moment arrived so soon？ But his father stepped away from his mother and marched out of the kitchen towards the porch。 Ruth； Andrew and Paul remained quite still； they might have promised not to move in his absence。
‘Did you fill up the tank？’ Simon shouted； as he always did when she had been working a night shift。
‘Yes；’ Ruth called back； striving for brightness； for normality。
The front door rattled and slammed。
Ruth busied herself with the teapot； waiting for the billowing atmosphere to shrink back to its usual proportions。 Only when Andrew was about to leave the room to clean his teeth did she speak。
‘He worries about you； Andrew。 About your health。’
Like fuck he does； the cunt。
Inside his head； Andrew matched Simon obscenity for obscenity。 Inside his head； he could take Simon in a fair fight。
Aloud； to his mother； he said； ‘Yeah。 Right。’
III
Evertree Crescent was a sickle moon of 1930s bungalows； which lay two minutes from Pagford’s main square。 In number thirty…six； a house tenanted longer than any other in the street； Shirley Mollison sat； propped up against her pillows； sipping the tea that her husband had brought her。 The reflection facing her in the mirrored doors of the built…in wardrobe had a misty quality； due partly to the fact that she was not wearing glasses； and partly to the soft glow cast over the room by her rose…patterned curtains。 In this flattering； hazy light； the dimpled pink and white face beneath the short silver hair was cherubic。
The bedroom was just large enough to acmodate Shirley’s single bed and Howard’s double； crammed together； non…identical twins。 Howard’s mattress； which still bore his prodigious imprint； was empty。 The soft purr and hiss of the shower was audible from where Shirley and her rosy reflection sat facing each other； savouring the news that seemed still to effervesce in the atmosphere； like bubbling champagne。
。
Barry Fairbrother was dead。 Snuffed out。 Cut down。 No event of national importance； no war； no stock…market collapse； no terrorist attack； could have sparked in Shirley the awe； the avid interest and feverish speculation that currently consumed her。
She had hated Barry Fairbrother。 Shirley and her husband； usually as one in all their friendships and enmities； had been a little out of step in this。 Howard had sometimes confessed himself entertained by the bearded little man who opposed him so relentlessly across the long scratched tables in Pagford Church Hall； but Shirley made no distinction between the political and the personal。 Barry had opposed Howard in the central quest of his life； and this made Barry Fairbrother her bitter enemy。
Loyalty to her husband was the main； but not the only； reason for Shirley’s passionate dislike。 Her instincts about people were finely honed in one direction only； like a dog that has been trained to sniff out narcotics。 She was perennially aquiver to detect condescension； and had long detected its reek in the attitudes of Barry Fairbrother and his cronies on the Parish Council。 The Fairbrothers of the world assumed that their university education made them better than people like her and Howard； that their views counted for more。 Well； their arrogance had received a nasty blow today。 Fairbrother’s sudden death bolstered Shirley in the long…held belief that； whatever he and his followers might have thought； he had been of a lower and weaker order than her husband； who； in addition to all his other virtues； had managed to survive a heart attack seven years previously。
（Never for an instant had Shirley believed that her Howard would die； even while he was in the operating theatre。 Howard’s presence on earth was； to Shirley； a given； like sunlight and oxygen。 She had said as much afterwards； when friends and neighbours had spoken of miraculous escapes and how lucky that they had the cardiac unit so nearby in Yarvil； and how dreadfully worried she must have been。
‘I always knew he’d pull through；’ Shirley had said； unruffled and serene。 ‘I never doubted it。’
And here he was； as good as ever； and there was Fairbrother in the morgue。 It only went to show。）
In the elation of this early morning； Shirley was reminded of the day after her son Miles had been born。 She had sat up in bed all those years ago； exactly like this； with sunlight streaming through the ward window； a cup of tea that somebody else had made her in her hands； waiting for them to bring in her beautiful new baby boy for feeding。 Birth and death： there was the same consciousness of heightened existence and of her own elevated importance。 The news of Barry Fairbrother’s sudden demise lay in her lap like a fat new baby to be gloated over by all her acquaintances； and she would be the fount； the source； for she was first； or nearly so； to receive the news。
None of the delight frothing and fizzing inside Shirley had been apparent while Howard had been in the room。 They had merely exchanged the ments proper to sudden death before he had taken himself off to the shower。 Naturally Shirley had known； as they slid stock words and phrases back and forth between them like beads on an abacus； that Howard must be as brimful of ecstasy as she was； but to express these feelings out loud； when the news of the death was still fresh in the air； would have been tantamount to dancing naked and shrieking obscenities； and Howard and Shirley were clothed； always； in an invisible layer of decorum that they never laid aside。
Another happy thought came to Shirley