"I think they've gone to wash their hands. They must all be pretty black."
"Oh. I'm glad to hear it. You could do with a wash yourself, Mary. There's a smut right across the middle of your nose. No, it's no use dabbing at it with your handkerchief. You'd better by half go upstairs and get tidied a bit. I'll pour out if the men come in."
Mary left the room, and Sarah stood by the table beating a soft tattoo on the back of John's chair. Only five hours ago a cyclist passing through Anderby on his way from Hardrascliffe had brought news to Market Burton of the Robsons' stack fire.
Sarah had asked no questions. She had put on her second best bonnet, roused Tom from his sleep and sent him to hire a car from the garage while she went herself to summon Toby. Sarah never was quite sure why she considered Toby's presence necessary, but a legal adviser might always come in handy and in this final catastrophe John must lack no possible support.
There was a clatter in the passage and three men entered the room: Tom Bannister, flushed and embarrassed, his round eyes wide with sleep, Toby Robson, nervous and loud voiced, wishing himself out of the whole damned show but determined to pass it off with as much joviality as possible, John, pale and miserable, his physical bulk only emphasizing his mental helplessness.
Sarah looked at him anxiously. She wanted, with an intensity that surprised her, to go up to him and put her arms round his broad bowed shoulders and stroke his hanging head and whisper, "Never mind, John. Never mind, dear John. You couldn't help it. You've done your best. You've given the ten best years of your life to Mary's farm. It isn't your fault it's all spoilt. I'll take care of you. Give it all up and come to Market Burton and we'll all be happy there again."
Instead she remarked:
"Hum. From the time you've all been away I thought you must have been having a bath, but now I've seen you I doubt I was mistaken. Tea, John? Tom, hand me the whisky decanter, please. A drop of whisky in a little strong tea won't do any of you any harm."
She established herself behind the teapot and was pouring out when Mary came in. Quietly Sarah relinquished her place and began to cut the loaf in stalwart slices.
"I wouldn't have any pie on an empty stomach if I were you, Tom. It's a while back since tea and I'm sure after a drive in Collinson's car your liver will be upset for weeks. Give him just a little ham, please, John."