Why had it taken so long to come to terms with this fact? I suppose that up until now I had occupied myself with forging a life for myself. Helen, children, my writing – he had not been a part of that life of mine. We only came into contact in our early youth at home. From the moment that James was born it was clear that he had taken his place centre stage and I was edged gently, with perfect kindness, to the side. Elpie worshipped the creature of gold, with grey eyes, my mother basked in the amazement of this late gift from God. Or, as she sometimes was heard to say in a voice which always made me ill with dislike of her, this ‘gift from the fairies’.

Well, there he was. The centre of an academic middle-class family which had thought that the life forged for it was suitable, comfortable and placid. Suddenly a golden glory had arrived, and everything changed.

Just as Helen had decided that enough was enough, that love had finally rotted past repair, so I fled the smugness of a family worshipping its golden calf. I was free.

I swung myself out of the lumpy bed, sat on the edge, legs swinging.

Nightmares. Brought on by heavy wine, heavier guinea-fowl, cheese and more brandy than was wise.

But even so, the fact of hatred could not be dismissed. Nor, indeed, could the fact of love. The two things together were naturally indigestible. It was so absurdly late to discover either of these in my usually stable self.

Was it a physical love for Florence? Hardly. She was not sexually a very exciting proposition. Calm, clear-eyed, loyal, but not sexually attractive. Perfectly all right. And I was in love. The very thought of her brought me intense pleasure. The remembrance of the soft down on her bare forearm, the gentle greyness of her eyes, the sudden gleam of joy which could light them like a candle flame in an abandoned room, the laugh, half mocking, half delighted: wholly intriguing. She was altogether intriguing. That she was hiding secrets was pretty evident; that she knew a good deal more than she was letting on I was quite certain. James would never have lost his head over a perfectly ordinary country-army-provincial-town girl. She would have to have had a bit more going for her to attract him. He was an odd fish. Savage, swift, sleek, secret. What then had attracted him? The same quality, I could only suppose, which had attracted me to her.