We sat there, considering this. I had a momentary flash of comradeship for Barry, kicked out, like me, after he had reproduced. Was it the praying mantis that ate her mate? This didn’t last, however. I was more worried about my son.

‘What happened to the children?’

‘School’s a godsend, isn’t it. Even nowadays.’ She stopped, and gazed down at her knitting. It was a cardigan, for her mother. ‘They were so lovely.’

‘The children?’

She nodded. Then she pushed a lock of hair out of her face. ‘Sometimes I think life’s just a tiny bit unfair.’

‘You think so?’

‘Don’t you?’ She raised her face. Her nose was shinier now. ‘I loved those kids.’ She paused. ‘Should have heard her yelling at them.’ She bent her head, again, over her pink wool.

When I woke next morning I couldn’t remember where I was. Somebody was humming in the bathroom. I heard the muffled grunt of a geyser. It was Sunday; I was in Reading.

I dozed, and had a vision of Hilda and me. We were propped up in bed, side by side. We wore pink cardigans and were both reading different books by Dick Francis. I thought: there are worse ways than this, aren’t there, to live with a woman?

Look what a mess this Perverse Thing Called Desire had got me into. The two biggest messes in my life. To be quite frank, had it been worth it? I would say, by and large, no.

Looking back on it, the whole business seemed fraught with embarrassment and danger. Knees and chins jabbing into the wrong place; the fear of offending somebody by yelping with pain. The teeth, the tongue, the toenails, all met unexpectedly. The sudden attack of wind. The lurking suspicion that one or other of you might be getting bored. The bed-creaks, like pistol shots. The painfully-trapped hair. The obligation to do it differently this time, in a new and cramp-inducing position, and knowing I had to get up at six the next morning. The muffled endearments that came out silly. The terrible fear of it all being over too quickly—I had found the silent recital of the World Cup squad helped this, but not always; not by any means. The dogged grind when I wanted to lie there, panting like a spent porpoise, but more, sometimes a great deal more, sometimes a full quarter of an hour more, was required. The effort of keeping this effort unapparent. The awkwardness, when you half-opened an eye and there was another eye, opened, jammed close.

The stickiness. The sudden, dizzy loneliness, like vertigo.