‘Yes, it will. Thank you.’

Together they went to the dog’s grave.

‘Where shall I put it?’

‘Here, across here.’ Matilda pointed.

Mr Jones laid the stone, rocking it to level the earth.

‘Thank you,’ she said again.

‘It’s nothing. Can I do anything else?’

‘No thank you. I have to go out and shop.’

‘Could I not do it for you? You should rest.’

‘No thank you. I’m going for a swim.’

Mr Jones stood looking miserably at Matilda.

‘I know Hugh has gone.’

‘Yes.’

‘He meant you to keep Folly.’

‘She was his dog. She followed him – naturally.’

‘He wouldn’t have wanted her to.’

‘I daresay not. I don’t think it matters now what he wanted, not any more, not now.’

‘He would have wanted to leave you happy.’

‘Don’t talk drivel.’

‘I’m sorry. I – I wanted.’

‘You what?’

‘I wanted to tell you I love you, Matilda. I always have. I want to comfort you. I’d like to begin by making you some tea.’

‘I don’t want tea, Mr Jones. It’s very kind of you but I don’t need comforting. I don’t think you do love me, it’s just an idea, all in the mind.’

‘It’s not only in my mind, it’s in my balls.’ Mr Jones found himself shouting at Matilda, longing to hit her.

‘It makes no odds to me whether your love is up or down, Mr Jones. I’m sorry, I have to go out.’ Matilda moved towards the house.

‘I chose the wrong moment. I thought we could live here in your house or in my bungalow –’

‘Oh, fuck your bungalow!’

‘All right. I’m sorry. I’ll go.’

Mr Jones turned and went. Matilda watched him go out of sight, fetched her towel and bathing dress from the line, noting that Hugh had even remembered to take his swimming trunks, which had belonged, she thought resentfully, to Tom.

She looked in her bag to see if she had any money. Hugh might have taken that too, but her purse was full. She put it in the beach bag with the towel and the bathing dress, went out, locked the door, put the key under the doorstep, got into the car and drove off to the town.

It was market day so she had trouble finding a place to park the car, finally leaving it on a double yellow line.

She made for the wine shop where she bought a bottle of Beaujolais, then to the baker where she bought rolls. At the delicatessen she persuaded the girl behind the counter who was more than usually busy to butter the rolls while she chose some Brie.

‘What d’you want to do that for? A whole crowd of people are waiting,’ the man who owned the shop hissed at his assistant as she buttered the rolls.