‘I was only married to Cousin Mogritt for two months,’ said Timfy sadly, ‘before she caught bleaching fever and all that was left was her little mouth-harp.’

‘I am sorry, Uncle, were you happy, was it everything you had hoped for?’

The train screamed below the house, Grandfather going into the city, the whole house shaking in acknowledgement, it did little to improve my spirits.

‘It’s time,’ he said. He blew his Albert once, so weak now in comparison, he opened the door, propelled me inside, closed it after.

‘Gloria Emma Utting.’

‘James Henry Hayward.’

Inside, in the half-light, seated at the far end of the room on the particular small red sofa that was used for these occasions I knew, without looking, by hearing alone, was sat my Cousin Pinalippy Iremonger with her Gloria Emma. It was the same sofa that my own mother and father had sat upon years ago. No other seat in that room. Never was, never shall be.

How, in the past, had each male Iremonger cousin chosen to approach his female cousin? Some may have run at it. Some may have pounded at the door, begging for it to be opened. Some may have shaken hands. Some straight to the kiss. I stood there by the door. We could not be the first for whom this was true, the whole half hour going by without contact, keeping each as far from the other as could be, looking even in opposite directions until someone should come to let us out and break the horror. Cousin and cousin, close so close, cousins every day, cousins in the night, cousin with cousin, cousining. I kept as still and as quiet as I could.

‘Gloria Emma Utting.’

And then another voice, ‘I’m waiting.’

Statue. Like a statue. But the voice came once more, and terrible it was, ‘Do you require directions?’

Statue.

‘Gloria Emma Utting.’

‘Must I fetch you?’

The voice required movement. And I began the awful expedition to the small sofa, not directly across the room, but rather, crablike, following the walls, in little steps, side by side, so that the journey might be twice the length.

‘Well, this is you then, is it?’ she said.

I thought it was.

‘I’m to marry you.’

‘Yes,’ I managed, ‘but not yet.’

She was much taller than me. She had a little hair on her upper lip.

‘You are nervous,’ she said.

‘Yes. Yes,’ I said. What else?

‘We knew it was going to happen, it wasn’t as if they didn’t give us warning. You’re shaking. Are you very ill?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘You won’t die if I touch you, will you?’

‘I couldn’t be certain.’

‘So then I’ll be a widow.’

‘We’re not even married yet.’

‘But we will be. There’s no getting out of it.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘no.’

‘Will I have to look after you?’

‘I hope not.’