She dressed in the jeans and shirt she found on her bedroom floor. There was only the top button left, the others twinkled up from the carpet. She pulled on a sweater, combed her wet hair, put on espadrilles, went back to the bathroom to clean her teeth. As she brushed them she noticed that Hugh’s shaving things were gone from the shelf, that his sponge was gone and his toothbrush.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror without recognition.

From the garden shed she fetched fork and spade and dug a deep hole by the rhubarb bed where the ground was soft and free of stones. When it was deep enough she fetched Folly and laid her in the hole, covered it with earth and trod it flat. Her espadrilles were full of grit and she had hurt the sole of her foot, digging. She took off the espadrilles, shook out the grit, then walked awkwardly to the tool shed, carrying the shoes in one hand, the fork and spade in the other. Her hand was not large enough to hold the tools; she dropped the spade with a clatter, bruising her foot. She hung the tools on their hooks and closed the shed door.

‘Matilda. I heard. I came to see whether I could help.’ Mr Jones stood a few yards off.

‘Excuse me, I’ve just had a bath. My hair is wet.’

‘I heard about Gus and Folly. I wondered –’

‘Yes?’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Do you have a large flat stone?’

‘I can bring you a slab from my path, one of the paving stones.’

‘Could you bring it at once?’

‘Yes, of course. You look strange. Shall I make you some tea?’

‘Not tea!’ Matilda exclaimed harshly.

‘I’ll get the stone at once.’

‘Please do.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry to be rude. It’s just –’

‘I know. I’ll go and get it.’

Mr Jones broke into a trot, running towards his bungalow. Matilda thought he looked ridiculous from behind. Short, fat, middle-aged men should not run.

She went back to the house to wash her hands at the sink, cleaning the earth from under her nails with an orange stick. There was a stain on the kitchen table. She wiped it with a wet cloth.

Waiting for Mr Jones, Matilda wandered round the house. Everything was in its place. The spiders were back slung across ceiling corners. She left them alone.

In her room she made the bed, smoothing the stained sheets, pulling up the blankets, puffing up the pillows. She held her breath so that she would not smell what was there, covered the whole with the patchwork bed spread Claud had sent from America. ‘Pretty.’ She stroked it. ‘Sweet Claud.’

Hugh’s room was empty. She inspected for traces of his occupancy. There were none.

Mr Jones came with a stone slab in his arms.

‘Will this do? It’s Delabole slate.’