II

SHE CHOSE TO walk, though her paintings would have fitted into the basket on the front of her bicycle. It was a long way, all of three miles, but walking calmed her. She wanted to arrive relaxed and betray no signs of the agitation she felt. Because of course it was wicked, what she proposed to do, and most likely she wouldn’t be able to carry it off.

The pottery was at the top of a hill, up a track similar to their own leading from the road. Above it, to the west, loomed the tall ruined engine house of the Polgooth mine, which always made her shiver. She had to skirt the little town of St Austell to get to the pottery and the bag weighed heavier on the pavements than it seemed to on the grassy paths. But once she was clear of the town, she enjoyed the walk and took her time over it, sorting out in her head as she went along what she was going to say. Conrad Jenkinson was kind. If he suspected a lie, he would not accuse her outright. He would smile, and look at her searchingly, and she would have to be bold and hold his gaze. Alan thought Conrad (whom he had never actually met) liked her a little too much by the sound of it, and was, because of this ‘liking’ (said with sarcastic emphasis), a little too kind. But she had to believe he was wrong. Alan even suspected that Conrad had not sold her paintings at all but had bought them himself, to be ‘kind’ and make her grateful. She hated him when he suggested this, and said so, and then he had apologised and said he was just jealous.

The Jenkinsons, she knew, had been away. The last time she’d called, the girl who helped Mrs Jenkinson told her that they had gone to France and she didn’t know when they would be back. She was keeping an eye on the place for them. But that had been some weeks ago and Stella was sure they must have returned by now. As she approached the pottery, she wondered what on earth the Jenkinsons had gone to France for, and how they’d managed to go at all.

*

Conrad had not wanted to go to France but Ginny, his wife, longed to go and look at the house she’d suddenly inherited. She’d been there once, when she was five or six, she thought, and had only vague memories of the house being near a much bigger building, a château with a tower and a round turret on the top which convinced her that the Sleeping Beauty must be inside. She had no idea, though, of its precise location. Conrad got a map out and they eventually found it, on the northern coast of Brittany, some kilometres from Lamballe. Ginny wanted to go and look at it immediately and they talked, wild talk, of leaving Cornwall and going to live there permanently.

Getting there, with two small boys, was hard, and when finally, exhausted, they reached Pléneuf they had trouble, in the dark, finding the house, and then gaining entry. There was a wind howling round it that night and the sea, very close by, was crashing furiously against rocks. But then, in the morning, when the wind had died down and the sun dazzled them as it came through the uncurtained windows, they were charmed. The house was dusty and neglected but it hardly mattered – they spent all day on the beach. There were rough paths from the house leading to the beach, where black rocks were strewn all along it. The light was beautiful. They found the château Ginny had remembered, the Château Vauclair, and it was as mysterious as she had recalled. The iron gate was locked and they could see that the gardens inside were overgrown and when they asked about the place in the village they were told it was for sale. There was a woman interested, it was said, an artist from Paris. She was staying with friends in a cottage nearby and had been to look at it.

Conrad wondered if he might have seen her, a small, very thin woman dressed in a blue serge coat and skirt, walking away from the château and carrying what he recognised as a sketch pad. He followed her, not quite knowing why. She went into the church and sat in front of the shrine to St Thérèse of Lisieux, and began to draw. He wanted to see what she produced but did not dare disturb her privacy and came out again, quickly, into the sunshine. He told Ginny about her and she gave him a sharp look. ‘She wasn’t young,’ he said, though he hadn’t seen her face. ‘I was only curious because of her sketch pad.’ Ginny envied the woman. She herself would like to be sitting quietly in church drawing instead of tied to the children. Conrad had told her she could go and draw any time she liked, but she did not trust him to watch the boys, especially Sam. He would let them drown, she was sure.

They put her uncle’s house up for sale. It was a pity, but they needed the money and could not afford to own and maintain a house in Brittany. Living there no longer seemed an option. Establishing another pottery would be too difficult and then there was the language problem. It was an adventure that was over. After a month, Conrad was homesick. He felt disorientated, and he wanted to work; idleness did not suit him. It was Ginny who would have liked to stay. She could, she felt, have been happy there, starting again.

*

To her relief, Stella saw signs of life at the pottery. The two small boys were running up and down the path that led to it, trying to fly a kite and yelling at each other. She found Conrad on his own, emptying his kiln. He was a big man, bearded, beside him she always felt smaller than she was, more fragile. Sometimes, standing beside him, she imagined him picking her up with ease and the idea made her dizzy. Alan, when she had described Conrad to him, accused her of being attracted to him – ‘Any girl would be, if he’s as tall and strong as you say’ – but she truly believed she was not, or not in the way he implied. And yet there was some kind of attraction: she did feel she was held within a powerful magnetic field when she visited him, but then she was sure everyone did. Conrad was powerful. Physically powerful, mentally powerful, able to radiate energy all around him. People locally spoke of him with awe and talked of genius and wondered how he came to be where he was, apparently unrecognised by the world. They expected fame to come for him at any time and then he would leave them. Stella hardly knew him; she was just an amateur artist who turned up from time to time, timidly showing her paintings to him and asking his opinion. He had only recently asked what the star she signed her paintings with signified. He had never asked her any personal questions, and, as far as she was aware, didn’t know where she lived or with whom. She knew far more about him, just from the gossip around the town. He was reputed to be ‘a ladies’ man’.

He had his back to her, so she coughed nervously, and he turned round at once. He nodded. Encouraged, she put the bag down, leaning it against the wall. ‘I’ve something to show you,’ she said, ‘it’s different, I think, I hope.’ She’d thought long and hard about how to do this, whether to show him the others first, or whether to show none of her work; whether to preface the showing with an explanation, or whether to say nothing. Deceit was involved either way. She wanted it over quickly, but he offered her tea, and she found herself accepting. He had a little iron stove in his studio, and now he opened its door, raked up the coals, and put a kettle on top. ‘Takes a while,’ he said. Two mugs appeared, a tin with tea in it and a brown teapot. Whistling, he stood staring at the kettle admiringly, as though it were a work of art, and she stared too.

Time, she had noticed, never seemed to matter to Conrad. He was always vague about judging it. His ‘I’ll be with you in a minute’ could take an hour. But finally the kettle bounced with boiling water, the tea was made (neither milk nor sugar offered) and they sat companionably on the only two stools. The tea was so hot she couldn’t even begin to sip it but sat nursing the mug in her hands while Conrad alternately blew on his and gulped. Carefully, she put the scalding tea down. ‘Can I show you?’ she asked. ‘Of course. Show away.’ The decision, now that the time had come, seemed made for her – absurd to have imagined she could show him the others. Reaching into the bag, she found the painting she wanted and unwrapped it. ‘There,’ she said, holding it up in front of her. Her heart was thudding. She could hardly bear to look at him. She supposed she was looking for a dramatic reaction, but none came. Conrad had put his tea down, and sat with his hands on his knees, studying the painting held up before him with interest but no great amazement. ‘Good,’ he said, finally, nodding his head. ‘Can I see it?’ and he held out his hands.

She gave it to him, and watched him as he scrutinised it. ‘Cleverly done,’ he murmured, and then, ‘I wonder, is it applied in layers, the paint?’ It was a question. She ought to reply that she didn’t know, how could she when she hadn’t painted it, but she was silent, unable to give up her hope that he would believe she had painted it. He hadn’t said, ‘Did you apply the paint in layers?’ but nor had he said anything definite to show he knew she had not, and could not have done. ‘You’ve never brought me anything like this before,’ he said, and seemed to wait. ‘Can you sell it, do you think?’ she blurted out. He smiled. ‘Oh yes, I can sell it.’ ‘How much for, do you think?’ She hated herself for the eagerness in her voice. He shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows. ‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘It depends who comes along, who will be discerning enough to buy it for what it is worth. Maybe as much as £5.’ He was still holding the painting, peering at it closely, but now Stella took it from him in one hurried movement, almost snatching it. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but it is not for sale. I don’t wish to sell it.’ She turned and picked up the wrapping paper and wrapped the painting again and put it back in the bag. ‘And the others?’ Conrad asked, indicating the bag, which he could see was full. ‘Oh, the others,’ Stella said, ‘don’t bother with the others.’

‘But you’ve brought them, at least let me see them.’

Reluctantly, she took them out and handed them to him, leaving him to unwrap them himself. ‘Pretty,’ he said, ‘you’re coming on. These will sell, if you want to sell them.’

‘Yes, I do, please, if possible.’

He was watching her face intently, she could see. ‘And the other, the corner of the room? What will you do with it?’

‘Keep it.’ There didn’t seem any point any more in pretending. ‘It was a present.’ She was blushing, and he would know why. ‘I just wanted to see what you thought,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t really pretending I’d painted it. I knew you’d know I couldn’t have done.’

‘Being trained shows,’ Conrad said. ‘Technique tells.’

‘Of course.’

‘Have you ever thought of …’

‘All the time. But it’s never been possible.’

‘Why not?’

‘Money, opportunity.’

‘Does painting make you happy?’

‘Not really. Yes. Sometimes. But I know I’m playing, no more. There’s nothing in these but playing, and trying. It frustrates me. I can’t get into them what I want.’

‘Which is?’

‘Oh …’ She was embarrassed. Conrad hadn’t moved, was sitting in exactly the same position, scrutinising her, making her move about, backwards and forwards, in front of him as though rehearsing a part in a play.

‘What do you want to get into your work?’

‘That’s the point, it isn’t work, it’s – I don’t know what to call it.’ Suddenly, she snatched the other painting from the bag and tore off the loose wrapping and held it up again. ‘There,’ she said, ‘there’s the difference, this says something!’

‘But how do you know that it didn’t fill its artist with the same sort of despair that you feel about your painting?’

‘What?’ She was startled.

‘How do you know this wasn’t discarded as a failure?’

‘It couldn’t have been.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s perfect.’

‘To you, maybe. Not necessarily to the person who painted it.’ Conrad got up at last and went through to the other part of his studio where he stored his finished pots. He returned carrying a bowl, a large shallow bowl. ‘Look at this,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s beautiful,’ Stella said. ‘Perfect.’

‘But not to me,’ Conrad said. ‘It isn’t perfect. I thought it was going to be, but it isn’t. The curve is a couple of millimetres too wide, the glaze is fractionally the wrong shade.’

‘Nobody else will see that.’

‘Probably not. I’ll sell it easily. But I’ll be glad to see it go because to me it’s a failure. We all do it, striving, aiming high and falling low.’

‘But it isn’t the same for people like me. You’re a real artist, I’m not. It’s no good trying to persuade me you feel the same as I do. You know the difference.’ She had begun to cry and yet hardly knew what she was crying about. ‘Oh, I’m being ridiculous,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what on earth is the matter with me. I must go.’

For a moment, she thought he was going to embrace her, but he only picked up the bag and put the painting back inside and handed it to her. She didn’t look at him, dreading the pity, or maybe the exasperation, she would see in his eyes. She would never be able to come again – he would have her down as a silly little fool who entertained delusions of grandeur. From the beginning, his kindness had been just that; he’d never thought what she produced for him to sell was anything but chocolate-box stuff. She didn’t know how she had ever had the nerve to show it to him. ‘Thank you,’ she said, more composed. ‘I won’t bother you again.’

‘That would be a pity.’

She gave a derisive little laugh. ‘Oh, I’m sure it would,’ she said, ‘you must think I’m quite mad.’

‘Not mad, no. Distressed. I’m not sure why. Is it really about art? I don’t think so, somehow.’

‘Goodbye. Thank you. Sorry.’ And she was gone.

*

Trying to describe the little painting later was hard. Conrad struggled to recall every detail of it, but he knew the details were not what mattered. The pine table, the wickerwork chair, were almost standard features of so many paintings, and the attic itself was a cliché of the artistic way of life. It was, he told his wife Ginny, more the atmosphere that had captured him. There had been an air of mystery in spite of the obvious props, a feeling that there was a life outside the painting which was being hinted at. Time, he said, seemed to be suspended, frozen almost, but why that should feel so significant he did not know. He wished he could show the painting to her, see if she could fathom the emotion he had felt there. Already, he was forgetting the nature of the bleached palette used, and the exact way in which the tiny brushstrokes – maybe a brush as fine as 00 – had been applied. ‘There was something vulnerable there,’ he said. ‘It was a calm, tranquil scene but there was something unsettling about it.’

‘Same as that young woman,’ Ginny commented, ‘Stella, isn’t it? The woman who brought it?’

Conrad nodded. He didn’t really want to think about Stella.

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Haven’t the faintest idea. I hardly know her, you know that.’

‘She’s pretty but pathetic.’

‘Yes, she is.’

They left it at that.

*

Stella didn’t go straight home. She hung around in the town for an hour, lurking in Holy Trinity Church, looking aimlessly in shop-windows, reading the newspapers in the library. She bought an orange to eat. Passing the station, she went and sat on a bench, as though waiting for a train, and ate the orange, putting the peel neatly in her bag. She could get on a train, any train, see where it would take her, but if she didn’t go home soon, Alan would start to worry. Alan, Alan, Alan. She was always putting him first. When she thought of him it was always as poor Alan, the man who had suffered so much and to whom she was devoted. But more and more this devotion made her resentful – she was devoted, but didn’t want to be. Devotion was not love. What was love, then? Angrily, she got up from the bench as a train came in, and left the station. She’d tricked herself. Tricked herself twice. Tricked herself into believing that tenderness and compassion and admiration all swept into one equalled love. Tricked herself into thinking she could be an artist when she had neither the talent nor the dedication. What was it she had said to Conrad? That she couldn’t get into her paintings what she was feeling. How pretentious. How lucky she couldn’t get her feelings into them, because they were ugly, murderous. She didn’t want to be with Alan. She didn’t even want to be in Cornwall.

There, she’d said it to herself. The relief was instant but didn’t last long. Leaving Alan was impossible, both emotionally and practically. He would never survive her desertion. He would kill himself. He’d said this often enough, and he’d meant it. And she had no money and nowhere to go. Except home, to her mother, to Tenby. What a mess she’d got herself into and must now get herself out of. Bit by bit. Start nursing again, earn money. Alan would accept that. All she needed to do was confess that she had deluded herself. Now and again she might like to try her hand at painting but two years of doing nothing else had shown her there was no real satisfaction there, only sometimes a fleeting pleasure. He’d understand that, maybe be glad. But he wouldn’t like her returning to nursing. It would take her away from him, and he would worry that she might meet someone just as she had met him, and then worry some more that this would be a ‘real’ man.

Walking home, she allowed that he might very well be right. Looking after people was what she had always done. Perhaps what she needed was the life hinted at in the painting she was carrying home – a serene life, selfish, untroubled by having to consider others, and without passion. But then there was no passion in her life as it was. If, as Alan feared, a ‘real’ man were to come into her life, he would bring passion. What effect this would have on her she no longer knew. Her body felt dead. Did it need sex to make it feel alive? It was a frightening thought which she wanted to reject. No sex since Emlyn was killed. Years of nothing. But that was not true – some of those years had been full of love, Alan’s love. He had held her tight, embraced her fiercely, put into his caresses and kisses his overpowering love for her but there had been no consummation of their love. She felt, all the time, on the brink of achieving an ecstasy and relief that never arrived, and it was painful. But she would never tell him so: she was ashamed of her longing, and that it should matter. Love, she had love.

He was waiting for her at the end of the track, leaning on his stick. ‘Thought I’d go for a walk,’ he said, as though apologising. ‘Didn’t get far.’

‘You should rest the leg today after yesterday.’

‘The leg? Sounds as if it has nothing to do with me, the leg.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Indeed, I do. So? What did the great Conrad think?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Haven’t you been to him?’

‘Yes. I’ve no idea what he thought.’

He sighed heavily. ‘I’ll rephrase it then: did you show him your paintings and did he agree to try to sell them?’

‘Yes, and yes.’

‘Well then, good. He liked them.’

She didn’t reply. Often, they had this kind of tennis-match dialogue – she played the game knowingly just as Alan did and yet both of them professed to hate it. She let him limp behind her, not bothering to slow to his pace. There was an odd smell in the cottage which it took her a moment or two to identify. As Alan came in, she said, quite sharply, ‘Embrocation does no good, you know that.’

‘It does if you massage it into my knee.’

‘Alan, it does not, it can’t. And when you put it on you just rub your knee, you don’t even massage it.’

‘But you weren’t here, and it was damned painful. Will you do it now? Please. I’ve been waiting for you to do it … I soon gave up trying myself.’

‘Get on the table, then,’ she said, curtly, ‘but I’ve told you, it does no good. It’s a waste of your time and mine.’

‘Time we’ve got,’ he said, almost in a whisper.

She warmed her hands at the fire first while he clambered onto the kitchen table, a stout old pine table, too big for their needs, but it had been there when they bought the cottage and they’d liked it. He’d taken his trousers off and lay in his shirt, the tails of it covering his thighs.

‘Bend the knee up slightly,’ she ordered, and then, when he lifted it too far, ‘No, only slightly. You know how to do it.’ He had his eyes closed, to her relief, and lay with his arms folded behind his head, forming a pillow. Slowly, she began the massage, putting all her weight behind the movement, kneading the flesh just above the knee and just below it. She didn’t even know the proper procedure, it was simply a technique she’d made up, but Alan had absolute faith in its beneficial effect, and it did no harm. It did not, though, have the other effect, the one he wanted. She knew perfectly well what this massage was about, and what he hoped for. His leg was warm, the flesh round his injured knee surprisingly lumpy. She pressed all over with the palms of her hands, trying to rotate the muscle. He asked her to go higher, saying the worst of the pain was above the knee, but she knew he was lying. She would not do what he wanted her to do. She couldn’t. After a mere five minutes she said, ‘There. Enough.’

‘Will you do my neck and my back now?’

‘No.’

‘Please?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know how to do it properly, and I don’t feel like doing it.’

‘Why? Can’t you bear to touch me?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’

‘That’s it, isn’t it? You can’t bear to touch me. I repel you.’

‘Alan, stop it. You’re being childish. I can’t be bothered with this.’

‘That’s obvious. You can’t be bothered with me, you mean.’

‘Not when you’re in this mood.’

‘It’s you who is in a mood.’

‘All right, maybe I am, so leave me alone.’

‘But I want to know what’s put you in this sulk …’

‘Sulk? I’m not sulking, I didn’t say I was sulking.’

‘That’s what it looks like. You should see your face, the minute I saw you, your face, set in an absolute sulk. I thought maybe boss Conrad hadn’t taken your paintings.’

‘Boss Conrad? Whatever do you mean?’

‘Well, he is your boss, in a way.’

‘He certainly is not. I don’t work for him. I never have done, I’m not his employee.’

‘You’d like to work for him, though, wouldn’t you?’

‘No.’

‘Fibber.’

‘Alan, stop it! Or else I’m going into the hut and I’ll stay there.’

She should say it now, tell him that she wasn’t just going to her studio but that she was leaving altogether. It was so tempting. Into her head flashed an image of herself packing a bag and storming out to the station with Alan weeping and shouting in the background. She stood still, relishing the vision, and then collected herself. The room was very quiet. Alan hadn’t got down from the table or put his trousers back on. How ludicrous he looked. She found herself smiling without wanting to do so, and all the old affection she had for him came rushing back. She went over to him and slapped his foot lightly. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘get down, get dressed. I’ll make some lunch.’ But he didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. She saw the tears seeping out from under his closed eyelids. She took a deep breath. ‘Alan,’ she said, ‘Alan,’ and kissed him on the cheek. There was no response. Turning away again, she went into the pantry and began heating some soup she’d made. The silence seemed appalling, she couldn’t bear it. Going back through the kitchen into the next room, she put a record on the gramophone, not caring what it was, and when the jazz notes began she felt better. The music filled the cottage and none of her movements could now be heard. She stirred the soup, cut some bread and got ready the bowls and spoons, and was busy. They would eat. This scene would end. They would carry on as normal – they always did. ‘Ready,’ she called, taking the soup through.

He still hadn’t moved, but she saw that his cheeks were dry, the tears had stopped. ‘Here,’ she said, and put his bowl down on the table. ‘It’s going to be very difficult to eat lying down and with your eyes shut, but it’s up to you.’ She took her own soup and walked through the cottage and out of the door and perched on the garden wall. It wasn’t warm enough to sit there, and she had taken her coat off, but she was not going to stay in the same room as Alan while he lay there. It felt freer outside, she was glad to be in the open air and ate with enjoyment. The strains of jazz floated outside and she found herself humming. She would have liked to dance. Another picture came into her head, of Alan coming to join her and making her dance with him, his leg improbably better. But she had never danced with him or ever seen him dance, and this image faded quickly. With enormous reluctance she went to take her empty bowl into the kitchen, dreading the sight of Alan still lying prone, the soup uneaten at his side. But he had gone. So had the soup. Relieved, she went to do the washing-up. He must be in the little living room, sitting beside the gramophone, the music soothing him. She would make him some tea and take it to him, and then she would go and lie down, exhausted.

*

Alan, opening the door, had no idea who the man standing there could be, though afterwards he realised he should have identified him instantly. Tall, broad-shouldered, muscular, Conrad was the sort of man Alan hated and envied, and he was barely polite. ‘Yes?’ he said, expecting to be asked where the road to St Austell lay, so when Conrad said good afternoon and might he speak to Stella, Alan was thrown. They knew nobody. Neither he nor Stella had made any friends. They kept themselves to themselves, spoke only to the postman and the shopkeepers. ‘Stella?’ he queried. ‘Stella,’ Conrad repeated, and then, ‘I sell her paintings.’

‘Oh,’ said Alan, furious to have been so slow and stupid, ‘do you indeed?’

‘I’m Conrad, Conrad Jenkinson, from the pottery.’

‘I see. Well, I’m afraid Stella is asleep.’ It was three in the afternoon. ‘She was tired.’ They were still standing at the door, with Alan trying to close it as much as possible behind him, so that his voice would not carry to Stella upstairs. ‘Can I help?’

‘You are?’

Alan frowned. ‘Her husband,’ he said, the lie coming easily because the pretence had gone on so long.

‘Ah,’ Conrad said, ‘I didn’t know she was married, sorry.’

‘She doesn’t wear a ring.’

‘Doesn’t she? I never noticed.’

‘Rings irritate her skin,’ Alan improvised, ‘give her eczema.’

‘Right. Well, if you could tell her I called, and if she’d like to drop in some time I might have some news for her.’

‘What news?’

‘I think I’d like to tell her, if you don’t mind.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Well, just that … well, I’d just like to tell her.’

‘Is it personal?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘Well then, give me the message. I’ll tell her. She’ll want to know why you came.’

He was making the man dislike him, Alan could see that, any fool could. He was being hostile and unfriendly and rude, but he couldn’t help it. It was how he felt, confronted with someone in such glowing health, face unmarked, legs strong, a fine specimen of manhood. Conrad Jenkinson was just as he’d feared. Thank God, Stella hadn’t answered the door. She would have invited him in, made him tea, and it would have been unbearable watching them together. But now the visitor was turning away, an odd superior smile on his face.

‘What’s the message?’ Alan said. ‘What shall I tell her?’

There was no reply. Conrad Jenkinson was at the gate, bending to open it, carefully shutting it. His motor-bike was parked on the grass verge. He got it started, with a struggle, and slowly rode down the track.

Angry, Alan went back inside just as Stella came down the stairs, yawning, her hair dishevelled and her cheeks rosy with sleep. ‘Was that someone at the door?’

‘No.’

‘But I heard you talking.’

‘Oh, that, yes, someone was lost, man on a motor-bike, asked the way. You know they haven’t put the signposts back yet.’

‘The way to where?’

‘St Austell, of course.’

More yawns, some stretching. ‘I’m going for a walk, wake myself up.’

‘I’ll come.’

‘But your leg, you said …’

‘I know what I said. I’ll come, unless you’d rather I didn’t.’ He saw her hesitate.

‘You’ll make the pain worse.’

‘I can stand the pain.’

‘No point, though, making it worse.’

‘I want to walk with you. That’s the point. Unless you don’t want me, which wouldn’t surprise me.’

‘Don’t start again, Alan.’

‘Start what?’

She turned round from looking out of the window so abruptly that he almost jumped. Her eyes met his and he saw how furious she suddenly was. ‘No,’ she said, ‘since you’ve asked, I do not want company on my walk, thank you. I’d prefer to walk on my own.’

‘I don’t blame you. No fun walking with a cripple. Cripples are a drag, can’t swing along, can’t …’

‘I’m not listening.’

‘Of course you aren’t, you never do.’

‘What? How dare you! I’ve listened to you ever since I met you. Listened and listened, and now I don’t like what I’m hearing, I’m tired of it, I want to go for a walk alone.’ She was rushing about, getting her coat, hurling it on, hunting for her scarf, pulling on boots. Any minute she would be gone.

‘Your Conrad man came,’ he said. She stopped, one boot on, one lying on the floor. She was waiting. ‘Don’t know what he wanted …’ he said, and before she could ask, ‘… just you. He wanted you. Don’t we all.’

‘You lied.’

‘Yes, I lied. And I said I was your husband, another lie.’

‘What on earth for?’

‘I didn’t want him to think you were a kept woman.’

‘Don’t be so stupid.’

‘I’m afraid I was. Stupid, that’s me.’

Would she still go for a walk? He watched her. She resumed getting ready, but he could see how disturbed she was, more by his lies, he thought, than by the news that Conrad Jenkinson had been. The anger had gone out of her and she looked worn and sad. ‘Stella …’ he began, but she shook her head, and, opening the door, stepped out. Anxiously, he stood in the doorway, to see which way she was going to turn. She turned right, towards the cliff path, and not left, towards the pottery beyond the town. Relieved, he put his own coat on and collected his stick. His leg was much too painful to follow her but he couldn’t bear to be inside, waiting. He would limp to the end of the track and sit on the tree stump there, and when she reached the highest point on the path he would briefly be able to see her in the far distance. When she returned, he would be properly contrite. She would see his shame, and understand.