An organ fugue was rippling through the speakers mounted in the corners of the room and the sun was making bright squares between the rag mgs on the stone floor. How peaceful, Helen thought. There was even a ginger cat asleep in a rocking chair beside the Aga and a plain-faced clock ticking loudly on the wall. There were wellingtons beside the back door, creased Sunday newspapers piled on the battered sofa, needlework and children’s paintings and seed catalogues stacked on the oak dresser.

How beautifully peaceful, Helen thought again, to live with your husband and children in an old stone house, cooking and gardening and inviting friends for Sunday lunches. From outside she could hear the shouts and occasional shrieks of laughter from the football players. I want to live like this, she thought. Then Beatrice, coming from the larder with ajar in her hand, stopped in front of the window. A shadow fell across her face. Except for Stephen, Helen remembered. There must be a hollowness inside all this domestic comfort. What kind of peace could there be, living with a man who did what Stephen did? She thought briefly of what Chloe had told her and then suppressed the memory. It was indecent, somehow, here in Beatrice’s kitchen. She put down her knife and went to stand beside Beatrice at the window.

The kitchen faced over a wide expanse of rough lawn dotted haphazardly with fruit trees. People were running across the grass, a black and white ball bouncing between them. A yellow retriever was barking frenziedly. Oliver burst out of the crowd and raced across to shoot at the two apple trees that stood for goalposts. He was a head taller than anyone else, and he stood out like a beacon. Pansy, muffled in scarves, was dancing up and down in the goalmouth, taunting him. Oliver kicked and she dived to the ball, rolling over and over with it in the wet grass. In front of them Joe Spurring leapt up and down yelling encouragement.

Helen glanced sideways at Beatrice, and then followed her gaze.

Stephen and Chloe were standing under the bare trees at the edge of the pitch. There was a careful distance between them, and it was that little space that gave them away. They looked too aware of being watched, too intent on the progress of the haphazard game.

Beatrice suddenly looked her age. Her mouth sagged and the creases deepened around her eyes. Helen wanted to lead her away, or to pull down the blinds and block out the sight of her husband with Chloe.

Then Beatrice shook herself imperceptibly. She turned to Helen and the youthfulness came back into her face. They saw Oliver running across the grass again and Beatrice waved. ‘He’s very beautiful, isn’t he? Is he quite real?’

Helen was caught off her guard by the defencelessness of the moment which had just passed.