In the afternoon they went to a bonfire in the pied garden, all hard mud and dead soiled swans of snow. Last year’s leaves lay frozen under a grove of beeches, next to the green yews. Two gardeners were raking in these leaves. He insisted on taking along his scarlet handcart, two clappers, and a toy rake he said would be handy. The gardeners had a better way. They were getting the leaves over two old turkey carpets. When they had made a heap they would gather the corners, stagger with this load on their backs right up to the fire, and then let go. Flames would take minutes to come through but, when they did, all called to Christopher to watch them lick out, making a hole and not even seeming warm, the colour taken away by the sun on snow. There would be sparks, a roll of smoke, and, in the end, that same mound of ash growing imperceptibly, glancing rose in places with the wind.

Christopher had not used the rake once and found the clappers too difficult. He picked up a forked branch. He used this as a pitchfork. He would let no one near, he prized the thing and hurled small quantities of brown leaves towards the fire, warning the others they must not even touch his stick. His father had shewn him how to use the clappers, and possibly this had been too much. He seemed to be absorbed. But the instant word was sent out from the house that Rosemary had arrived he was so excited that he turned round without another thought, shouted, “Here you are,” as he threw the bit of wood, which had been precious, towards his father, and then ran so hard to get to Rosemary that he tripped and twice fell flat. They all laughed, pleased that he was glad.

The children were going to have their tea with the nannies. Roe had to leave for the station before they could begin. He was due for some annual leave in a fortnight’s time, Christopher could hardly wait to say goodbye because of his birthday cake, but, on this occasion, Richard did not mind departing. He was to be back in a day or two, so that his night at home seemed to have been a week-end before the war, his life in the Fire Service, so easily forgotten once he was away, no more important than a routine.

WHEN ROE first joined the Service, when the nations were still declaring peace, it seemed ludicrous to be trained by firemen in a real fire-station. He signed on because he had for years wanted to see inside one of these turretted buildings, and also because he had always been afraid of heights. He did not know there was such a thing as a public night each week, when anyone is allowed to wander round, and he had not had the energy to run up a ladder thirteen times to find out if he could lose the feeling that he must throw himself off.