The bottle of port had gone. I looked at Hilda’s broad back, as she stood at the oven. The little girl stood beside her, on a chair, a tea-towel wrapped around her waist. She had an implement, too, and pushed the sausages around the pan. She was humming, tunelessly, to herself.

I suddenly felt sad. Here I was—a father, of sorts. A father for tonight, anyway. A bonfire-night father. Here Lesley was, a mother. For better or worse, she had struggled through and had two sturdy children. Whatever their complaints, they would be hers for life. And there stood Hilda, born to be a mother; the most suitable parent of us all.

I thought of Lesley’s book, The Perversity of Desire, and cursed myself. I cursed the lot of us. Life’s unfair, I’d repeated, over and over, these past two months. Of course it bloody was.

There was a hiss, as Hilda turned the sausages. ‘This morning, when I was waiting for you,’ she said, ‘I had a natter with the manager.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘The hotel manager. They’re looking for a new pastry chef. He’s giving me a trial run next month.’ She inspected the sausages. ‘Bugger the Gas Board.’

‘You’re coming to live in Deal?’

‘I’ve got to get out of my flat anyway,’ she said. ‘They’re pulling it down.’ She paused. ‘I’ve missed them.’

I nodded. ‘They’ve missed you.’

She wiped her hands on her apron, and turned to me. ‘Lesley’s getting on better with her parents,’ she said. ‘Bodes well for you.’

‘Why?’

‘Why, nitwit?’ She rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘It means she’s growing up, doesn’t it.’

Lesley was out in the garden. I saw the red tip of her cigarette.

‘He’s making garlic bread with Hilda,’ I said. I paused, then I sat down beside her on the patio. The concrete was freezing. ‘What are we going to tell him?’

‘Nothing, yet,’ she said.

‘What am I going to do?’

‘Nothing, yet.’

‘I’m selling my house, I’m leaving my job. I can do anything. I can set up a driving school in Deal.’ I paused, and added, with the old bitterness: ‘I’m fancy free.’

She didn’t reply. In the next garden, flames leaped. She passed me the bottle of port and I took a gulp. I felt nervous.

‘I hated you for years,’ I said.

‘No you didn’t.’

‘I did!’

She sighed. ‘You didn’t think about me enough to hate me. I bet you didn’t.’ She ground out her cigarette; sparks flew. ‘Not until things went wrong.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean,’ she said.

‘I don’t.’

She said: ‘Until you broke up with your wife.’

I paused. ‘What?’

She snorted. ‘Men!’ she said. ‘You’re so linear.’

I laughed. ‘Never been called that before. What’s it in English?’