I hung up quickly, cutting him off, because we were pulling up alongside a yew tree hedge, the same hedge where Peter and I had once liked to hide in order to spy rapturously upon his parents.

“Target One is hanging out the washing.”

“Target Two is boiling the kettle and helping himself to biscuits.”

But Peter wasn’t there now. I paid up and got out, then waited while the driver turned around and drove away. Beyond the hedge were the lawn and planted borders, as immaculate as ever. I wondered if Patricia still did them or if they got someone in. The vicarage looked no different, no different at all. I went up the path toward the front door, climbed the steps, and let fall the heavy knocker, just as I’d always done.

Patricia was not smiling when she came to the door. Her hands were floury.

“I’m in the middle of making a cake.”

“What kind of cake?”

“A Victoria sponge, dear. But it won’t be ready for a while yet.”

“I came because I think I know where—”

“Peter called, dear. He’s in America. I told him he had to call you to apologize. All that trouble you’ve been put to.”

We looked at one another, as ever each taking the other’s measure. Underneath the apron, she had on a blue dress and pearls. Her hair was set in a wave. Her eyes, a duller blue now, fell on the creases in my trousers, the stain on my coat. It made me feel like an evacuee, standing there in my rumpled clothes, hoping to be taken in. And there had been a time when I’d wanted to be taken in, had my eye firmly set on the spare bedroom and a permanent place at the dinner table.

“He’s not in the States. He’s here. Least he was.”

Even the window cleaner got offered a cup of tea. As though reading my mind, Patricia said, “I’d invite you in, but I’m going out and Richard’s with a parishioner.” I hadn’t slept. My eyes started burning.

“Did he say where he was? What he’s been playing at?”

Patricia cleared her throat. “He’s been staying with some lay brothers in California. I think”—her voice went up at least an octave—“he didn’t say, not exactly, but I think he’s been having a spiritual crisis.”

“Lay brothers?”

“They’re unordained. Committed to the religious life but not priests themselves.”

“Oh, you’re bloody clueless. Do you have any idea who Peter actually is?”

“The cake is going to burn. It’s had over twenty minutes. I really must…”