About now the boat crew, probably a mackerel fisherman’s, should have caught sight of her body, fished her out to bring her ashore, sent for the police and the ambulance. Matilda frowned, trying to recollect whether drowned people sank for a few days then surfaced, or floated for a few days before sinking. Not knowing bothered her. Why had she not found out this simple fact?

She divided the floury dough into four, smacked the loaves into four, pressed each with the back of a knife and put them in the oven. She would buy another bottle of Beaujolais, more butter, more Brie, another peach.

‘I shall take you to the Lost Dogs Home.’ Folly twitched her tail. ‘But I shall have to wait for the tide to be right.’ The dog wagged cheerfully. ‘I do not want to grow fond of you.’ The dog looked away. ‘You should have gone with him. He picked you up. You are his, not mine.’ Matilda listened to the silence of the cottage, certain that the man had gone. Not knowing whether the man was there or not, she felt in limbo, not wanting to readjust to living. She felt anguish choking her, cheated, for her mind had been prepared for death. She felt especially angry at the prospect of cleaning the house all over again, all those spiders.

Automatically she took the bread from the oven. If he had gone she would do as before, clean the house, weed the garden, pack her picnic, do it all again in a month. This time there would be no barbecue on the beach; the young people would have gone, their holidays over. If he had not gone she would phone the police. No, not that. They would ask questions. She would be involved. She could just imagine the questions. He would have to go off on his own before anyone saw him. She would ask him to go.

When the telephone pealed she felt fear leap in her throat. She watched the instrument as the bell jangled. Then she picked up the receiver, pinched her nose between finger and thumb and said:

‘Ullo?’

‘Can I speak to Mrs Poliport, please?’ John’s voice, crisp and terse.

‘She’s not here.’ Only John again.

‘When will she be back?’

‘She didn’t say.’

‘Has she gone away?’

‘She may have.’

‘Who is that?’

‘Mrs ‘Oskings.’

‘Mrs Hoskings who –’

‘I clean for Mrs Pollyput. From time to time I clean. Mrs Pollyput she don’t like cleaning.’

‘I daresay not.’

‘Not’s the word. Who shall I say called? I’ll write down. You should see the spiders.’

‘Piers, just Piers.’

‘Like at the seaside?’ Matilda, holding her nose, snorted.

‘Yes, like at the seaside. Write it down, please.’

‘Just a minute. I’ll get a pencil – sir –’ added Matilda to add credence to her role. ‘Oh, here’s a message from her. Shall I read it to you?’

‘Yes, please do.’