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Howard checked his watch。
‘That’s nearly half…past； Mo。’
They were never late opening up； never early closing； the business was run with the ritual and regularity of a temple。
Maureen teetered over to unlock the door and pull up the blinds。 The Square was revealed in jerky increments as the blinds went up： picturesque and well kept； due in large part to the co…ordinated efforts of those proprietors whose properties faced onto it。 Window…boxes； hanging baskets and flower tubs were dotted about； planted in mutually agreed colours each year。 The Black Canon （one of the oldest pubs in England） faced Mollison and Lowe across the Square。
Howard strode in and out of the back room； fetching long rectangular dishes containing fresh patés； and laying them； with their jewel…bright adornments of glistening citrus segments and berries； neatly beneath the glass counter。 Puffing a little from exertion ing on top of so much early morning conversation； Howard set the last of the patés down and stood for a little while； looking out at the war memorial in the middle of the Square。
Pagford was as lovely as ever this morning； and Howard knew a sublime moment of exultation in the existence； both of himself； and of the town to which he belonged； as he saw it； like a pulsing heart。 He was here to drink it all in – the glossy black benches； the red and purple flowers； the sunlight gilding the top of the stone cross – and Barry Fairbrother was gone。 It was difficult not to sense a greater design in this sudden rearrangement of what Howard saw as the battlefield across which he and Barry had faced each other for so long。
‘Howard；’ said Maureen sharply。 ‘Howard。’
A woman was striding across the Square； a thin； black…haired； brown…skinned woman in a trench coat； who was scowling at her booted feet as she walked。
‘D’you think she …？ Has she heard？’ whispered Maureen。
‘I don’t know；’ said Howard。。
Maureen； who had still not found time to change into her Dr Scholl’s； nearly turned an ankle as she backed away from the windows in haste； and hurried behind the counter。 Howard walked slowly； majestically； to occupy the space behind the till； like a gunner moving to his post。
The bell tinkled； and Dr Parminder Jawanda pushed open the door of the delicatessen； still frowning。 She did not acknowledge Howard or Maureen； but made her way directly to the shelf of oils。 Maureen’s eyes followed her with the rapt and unblinking attention of a hawk watching a field mouse。
‘Morning；’ said Howard； when Parminder approached the counter with a bottle in her hand。
‘Morning。’
Dr Jawanda rarely looked him in the eye； either at Parish Council meetings； or when they met outside the church hall。 Howard was always amused by her inability to dissemble her dislike； it made him jovial； extravagantly gallant and courteous。
‘Not at work today？’
‘No；’ said Parminder； rummaging in her purse。
Maureen could not contain herself。
‘Dreadful news；’ she said； in her hoarse； cracked voice。 ‘About Barry Fairbrother。’
‘Mm；’ said Parminder； but then； ‘What？’
‘About Barry Fairbrother；’ repeated Maureen。
‘What about him？’
Parminder’s Birmingham accent was still strong after sixteen years in Pagford。 A deep vertical groove between her eyebrows gave her a perennially intense look； sometimes of crossness； sometimes of concentration。
‘He died；’ said Maureen； gazing hungrily into the scowling face。 ‘Last night。 Howard’s just been telling me。’
Parminder remained quite still； with her hand in her purse。 Then her eyes slid sideways to Howard。
‘Collapsed and died in the golf club car park；’ Howard said。 ‘Miles was there； saw it happen。’
More seconds passed。
‘Is this a joke？’ demanded Parminder； her voice hard and high…pitched。
‘Of course it’s not a joke；’ said Maureen； savouring her own outrage。 ‘Who’d make a joke like that？’
Parminder set down the oil with a bang on the glass…topped counter and walked out of the shop。
‘Well！’ said Maureen； in an ecstasy of disapproval。 ‘“Is this a joke？” Charming！’
‘Shock；’ said Howard wisely； watching Parminder hurrying back across the Square； her trench coat flapping behind her。 ‘She’ll be as upset as the widow； that one。 Mind you； it’ll be interesting；’ he added； scratching idly at the overfold of his belly； which was often itchy； ‘to see what she …’
He left the sentence unfinished； but it did not matter： Maureen knew exactly what he meant。 Both； as they watched Councillor Jawanda disappear around a corner； were contemplating the casual vacancy： and they saw it； not as an empty space but as a magician’s pocket； full of possibilities。
VIII
The Old Vicarage was the last and grandest of the Victorian houses in Church Row。 It stood at the very bottom； in a big corner garden； facing St Michael and All Saints across the road。
Parminder； who had run the last few yards down the street； fumbled with the stiff lock on the front door and let herself inside。 She would not believe it until she heard it from somebody else； anybody else； but the telephone was already ringing ominously in the kitchen。
‘Yes？’
‘It’s Vikram。’
Parminder’s husband was a cardiac surgeon。 He worked at the South West General Hospital in Yarvil and he never usually called from work。 Parminder gripped the receiver so tightly that her fingers hurt。
‘I only heard by accident。 It sounds like an aneurysm。 I’ve asked Huw Jeffries to move the PM up the list。 Better for Mary to know what it was。 They could be doing him now。’
‘Right；’ whispered Parminder。
‘Tessa Wall was there；’ he told her。 ‘Call Tessa。’
‘Yes；’ said Parminder。 ‘All right。’
But when she had hung up； she sank down into one of the kitchen chairs and stared out of the window into the back garden without seeing it； her fingers pressed to her mouth。
Everything had shattered。 The fact that it was all still there – the walls and the chairs and the children’s pictures on the walls – meant nothing。 Every atom of it had been blasted apart and reconstituted in an instant； and its appearance of permanence and solidity was laughable； it would di