Their eyes met. Her face was chalk-white, made distorted and ugly by the destruction of her hopes. She let her father take her arm and then she snapped, ‘What happened?’

‘I was mugged, dear, but I’m all right now. This gentleman happened to come along at the opportune moment. I haven’t thanked him properly yet.’ He put out his hand to Dick. ‘You must come in. You must let us have your name. No, I insist. You probably saved my life. I could have died of exposure out there.’

‘Not you,’ said Dick. ‘Not with that dog of yours.’

‘A lot of use he was! Not much of a bodyguard, are you, Bruce?’

Dick bent down and patted the dog. He shook off the detaining hand and said as he turned away, ‘You’ll never know how much use he was.’

He got into the car without looking back. In the mirror, as he drove away, he saw the woman retreat into the house while her father stood dizzily on the path, making absurd gestures of gratitude after his rescuer.

Dick got home by a quarter to ten. Monty was waiting for him in the hall, but the Chief was still in the sitting room on the settee. Dick put on their leashes and his best coat on Monty and opened the front door.

‘Time for a beer before the pub closes, Mont,’ he said, ‘and then we’ll go on the common.’ He and the dogs sniffed the diesel-laden air and Monty sneezed. ‘Bless you,’ said Dick. ‘Lousy hole, this, isn’t it? It’s a bloody shame but you’re going to have to wait a bit longer for our place in Scotland.’

Slowly, because Monty couldn’t make it fast any more, the three of them walked up towards the George Tavern.

Divided We Stand

IT WAS MOTHER who told Marjorie about Pauline’s friend, not Pauline herself. Pauline never said much. She had always been a sulky girl, though hardly a girl any more, Marjorie thought. Mother waited until she had gone out of the room to get the tea and then, leaning forward in her chair, whispering, closing both her hands over the top of her walking stick, she said:

‘Pauline’s got a gentleman friend.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Marjorie – a stupid question as there was only one way Mother could know seeing that she and Pauline were always together.

‘He was here last night. He came after I’d gone to bed but I could hear them talking down here. He didn’t stay long and when he was going I heard him say, “Speaking as a doctor, Pauline . . .” so I reckon she met him when she was in that place.’

Marjorie didn’t like to hear ‘that place’ spoken of. It was foolish – narrow-minded, George said – but a lunatic asylum is a lunatic asylum even if they do call them mental hospitals these days, and she didn’t care to think of her sister having been in one. A mental breakdown? – why couldn’t the specialist have called it a nervous breakdown? – was such an awful thing to have in the family.