‘I’ll try and remember the words. My Pa was in the Territorials. Ma took me to their concert.’

‘It sounds Edwardian. Go on singing. I like it.’

‘I forget the words, just as I forget my life, huge chunks of it.’

‘It will all flash before your eyes out by the lighthouse.’

‘Maybe. That’s something I hadn’t thought of. Surely I shall think of something more profound than tattooed ladies?’

‘You will think of your lovers, perhaps.’ Hugh, lolling beside her, thought of her standing naked, arms raised, on the beach. ‘You must have had plenty.’

‘No, I didn’t. Vague experiments, then I married Tom.’

‘But surely –’

‘I was faithful.’

‘Prig.’ Hugh teased. Matilda frowned.

‘I was, I promise. No chance of anything else. Tom was a jealous man, he chased other men away. We lived like swans. They mate for life,’ she said, knowing she lied.

‘Swans,’ Hugh jeered.

‘I know, I’ve found out haven’t I? But I don’t suppose I would have been any different if I had known it all.’

‘But since his death?’

‘I’m too old. No one. Well, a glint in Mr Jones’s eyes soon doused.’

‘Well I never.’ Hugh thought of the tussling Mr Jones in bed. ‘I daresay he’d put up a creditable performance. Maybe you’re not keen though.’

‘Keen on what?’

‘Bed.’

‘I adore fucking,’ Matilda said intensely. Hugh raised his eyebrows, looking at her sidelong, full mouth, small chin. She opened the mouth and sang, repeating the words she could remember.

‘I paid a shilling to see

A tattooed lady,’

then, breaking into a piercing whistle she turned the car off the main road and drove through the lanes to the cottage.

‘It’s been a lovely day. Thanks.’

‘I enjoyed it.’

‘Here we are. Where’s Gus?’

‘Can’t see him.’ Hugh gathered up their bathing things. ‘I’ll hang these up.’

‘Okay. Gus, Gus, where are you? Gus? Sometimes he goes down the river. He always comes back.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have to see Mr Jones. I won’t be long.’

‘Don’t let anyone see you.’

‘Of course not.’ Hugh went up to his room, took his money from the dressing-table drawer. He counted a hundred pounds in notes, put them in his wallet, then counted the rest. Matilda was in the garden picking vegetables. From time to time she called, ‘Gus, Gus, come on boy,’ in a high voice.

‘He’ll come, he does this sometimes. It’s his way of asserting his independence.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, quite. Don’t be long. I’m hungry.’

‘Not long –’ Hugh walked along the stream, through the copse, followed by Folly, to Mr Jones’s bungalow. Mr Jones was sitting in his porch smoking.

‘I didn’t know you smoked.’

‘Pot.’ Mr Jones offered the cigarette to Hugh who drew on it deeply. ‘Improves the view,’ Mr Jones said, ‘makes things twice as clear, if you want clarification.’