I walk over the soft, dewy grass with no idea how I can help her or how I can stop this desolate act of destruction. She hasn’t seen me in the dark.

The fire flares and spits and in the dark heart of the flames I can see a garment, black and smouldering. Dinah’s poking it aggressively with the handle of a yard brush.

‘Dinah?’

I’ve startled her. She grabs my wrist.

‘Look at it!’ she says contemptuously. ‘It doesn’t even burn.’

I snatch the brush out of her hand and move away from the intolerable heat of the fire. Muslin garment bags are piled in a wheelbarrow and I feel sick to my soul to see them. ‘That’s your answer, is it? You’re going to burn all of your clothes, your collection, your history?’

‘It’s worthless, so who cares?’

‘I care! You’ve got to stop this. Think of Moss.’

She coughs and fans the smoke away with her hand. ‘Why should I? This is all I’ve got to show for my life. What use is it? In the end it’s all ashes anyway.’

‘Don’t say that! Don’t destroy them out of anger – it’s just – wasteful. Burning everything isn’t the answer.’

‘It’s my answer,’ she says defiantly. ‘Pah! I’m finished with it all.’

‘But you looked gorgeous in them. They were perfect for you, you always looked amazing.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she says, pulling my arm. ‘Give me my stick back! They’re all fake. His love was fake. Our marriage was fake. What have I got to look forward to?’ She shrugs. ‘I’m eighty-nine. My life’s over.’

I don’t know how to deal with emotion except by shutting myself away from it and I wrap my coat tightly around me. My eyes are stinging with smoke and tears. What the hell? Maybe she’s right and in the end it is pointless, trivial and all for nothing.

She stabs the burning jacket and holds it up high. Her gleeful contempt breaks my heart and suddenly I’ve had enough; I can’t cope with her anger. ‘Oh, why should I care? They’re your clothes. Do what you want with them.’

‘I will!’ She picks up a garment bag and holds it towards the flames, watching me defiantly, daring me stop her.

I start back to the house; the windows throw squares of light before my feet.

‘I will do what I want!’ she shouts after me. ‘I don’t need your permission for that! Who cares? Who cares what I do?’

Let her deal with her own problems, because I can’t. I’m shivering with tension despite the warm night and as I get to the steps, Moss is looking out of the kitchen window, his hands cupped around his eyes, trying to make us out in the dark.