‘You don’t know what the world’s coming to, do you?’ said Mrs Upton, opening a tin of peaches for lunch.

‘I most certainly do know,’ said Mrs Julian. ‘Anarchy. Anarchy is what it is coming to.’

Throughout the week the refuse on the tip mounted. Fortunately, the weather was very cold; as yet there was no smell. In Paintbox Place black plastic sacks of rubbish began to appear outside the cupboard doors, on the steps beside the coloured front doors, overflowing into the narrow flowerbeds. Mrs Upton came five days a week but not on Saturdays or Sundays. When the doorbell rang at ten on Saturday morning Mrs Julian answered it herself and there outside was Mr Arnold from the house with the red front door, behind him on the gravel drive a wheelbarrow containing five black plastic sacks of rubbish.

He was a good-looking, cheerful, polite man was Mr Arnold. Forty-two or three, she supposed. Sometimes she fancied she had seen a melancholy look in his eyes. No wonder, she could well understand if he was melancholic. He said good morning, and he was on his way to the tip with his rubbish and Mr Laindon’s and could he take hers too?

‘That’s very kind and thoughtful of you, Mr Arnold,’ said Mrs Julian. ‘You’ll find my bag inside the dustbin at the gate. I do appreciate it.’

‘No trouble,’ said Mr Arnold. ‘I’ll make a point of collecting your bag, shall I, while the strike lasts?’

Mrs Julian thought. A plan was forming in her mind. ‘That won’t be necessary, Mr Arnold. I shall be disposing of my waste by other means. Composting, burning,’ she said, ‘beating tins flat, that kind of thing. Now if everyone were to do the same . . .’

‘Ah, life’s too short for that, Mrs Julian,’ said Mr Arnold and he smiled and went off with his wheelbarrow before she could say what was on the tip of her tongue, that it was shorter for her than for most people.

She watched him take her sack out of the dustbin and trundle his barrow up the slope and along the path between the wet black mounds. Poor man. Many an evening, when Mr Arnold was working late, she had seen the chocolate front door open and young Mr Laindon, divorced, they said, just before he came there, emerge and tap at the red front door and be admitted. Once she had seen Mrs Arnold and Mr Laindon coming back from the station together, taking the short cut through the ‘wood’. They had been enjoying each other’s company and laughing, though it had been cold and quite late, all of ten at night. And here was Mr Arnold performing kindly little services for Mr Laindon, all innocent of how he was deceived. Or perhaps he was not quite innocent, not ignorant and that accounted for his sad eyes. Perhaps he was like Othello who doted yet doubted, suspected yet strongly loved. It was all very disagreeable, thought Avice Julian, employing one of her favourite words.