‘Here you are,’ said the man, as he had before. ‘Almost given you up today. What can we do you for?’

Cheta handed over the list. ‘And the lady will want some things.’

‘No,’ said Rachaela, ‘I don’t need anything today.’ She smiled stiffly at the man, who looked surprised. ‘Many more stops for you after this one?’

‘This is the last,’ said the man. ‘Then back to town and put me feet up.’

The skinny woman sniffed. ‘And that’s when my work starts.’

‘A woman’s work is never done,’ said the van driver, clearly pleased at this adage which shored up years of male indolence and buck-passing.

The cans of oil were coming out for Carlo, and some petrol. Of course, they had used up a lot of petrol on Sylvian.

Seeing Carlo tote the cans, Rachaela recollected him hoisting the merman off the rocks, lugging it over the beach.

Cheta, her bags loaded with soap and soda, dettol, oatmeal, said, ‘Did you bring the brandy?’

‘Could only get one bottle. Just a tick.’

The man squeezed into the back of the van, slightly displacing his knitting wife like a stack of cornflakes, and returned with the black bottle.

Stephan’s drink. Doubtless the abstemious consolation of some of the others. The Scarabae were not great drinkers, but they liked their little comforts.

‘Couple of books too, for the missus,’ added the driver, giving to the preposterously laden Cheta a parcel tied, old-fashionedly, by string.

Cheta produced the roll of brown notes.

Rachaela thought of the envelope of brown and turquoise notes in her own bag.

‘Any chance you could give me a lift into town?’ said Rachaela, bright, innocent, an offhand request.

At her side Cheta altered, it was impossible to be certain how—astonishment, alarm or menace.

‘Well... It’s a small van, this one.’

‘I’d be happy to pay.’

As she had expected, easy money tempted him.

‘What do you say, Rene? Shall we help the girl out?’

Rene folded up her knitting. ‘It’s all one to me.’

‘I’ll see you later,’ Rachaela said, lying, brightly, innocently, to Cheta.

Cheta and Carlo stood on the slope, saying nothing, doing nothing, their blank faces and bloomed-over eyes quite fixed. She had gambled they would not make a scene before the van driver and his spouse, and she had been right.

The facility of her escape went to Rachaela’s head. She got in at the front next to Rene, who was instructed to ‘squash up’ on the long seat. The van man shut the van and came around to fill up the cab.

It would not be a comfortable journey, but she had never thought it would be.

‘Longish drive,’ said the van man. ‘Have to ask you for a fiver. It’s the extra weight and the petrol,’ he explained rather sheepishly, bulging Rene and Rachaela almost off the seat.