Mrs Y, the owner of the dog eaten by her husband was arrested by the police this morning and will be charged with grievous bodily harm –

Our correspondent in Cape Town reports Hugh Warner, the Matricide, was seen at the races by an intimate friend Mrs Vivian Briggs –

Here the television blanked out, lightning flashed, followed by a clap of thunder.

Matilda got up and tried a light switch. ‘Power cut,’ she said and tried the telephone. ‘That’s gone too. Who is this intimate friend, Mrs Vivian something?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

The rain came down in noisy torrents. Outside the kitchen door Gus honked, defying the elements. Folly crept under the dresser.

Matilda ran round the house shutting windows against the rain whistling down venomously after holding off for so long. Thunder crashed overhead, then cracked and burst simultaneously with the lightning. She found candles to light the kitchen. Hugh drew the curtains. Gus stood in the doorway and Matilda let him into the scullery and closed the door to the garden. Hugh lit the candles.

Matilda stood with her back to the stove, her arms crossed, hugging herself, her dress stained with goose mess, her feet bare. In turn she warmed each foot against the stove, standing birdlike on one foot. Her hair was swept into a crest. She looked, he thought, like a print he had once bought of a Polish Fowl.

When the centre of the storm had moved a little way off Matilda asked again: ‘Mrs Vivian something?’

Hugh shook his head. ‘No idea.’

Some girl friend of yesteryear, thought Matilda. Some woman who would enjoy saying at parties, ‘Oh, Hugh Warner – of course I know him well –’ attracting attention to herself by dubious name dropping. It was the sort of thing Anabel did. She let her mind dwell briefly on her daughter and found her wanting. Anabel craved attention, always had, and so too did Louise who got more, being more beautiful than her sister. Two beautiful daughters, two good looking sons, thought Matilda. They shall find nothing of me to pick over, no surprises. Let them go on with their erroneous ideas. She smiled.

‘What’s the joke?’

‘I was thinking of my children.’

‘Funny?’

‘I have left no secrets for them to pore over – burned my letters, destroyed all clues. I shall leave them nothing but a shed snakeskin.’

‘You look like a Polish Fowl.’

‘They are very rare nowadays.’

‘Yes?’ Hugh was delighted that she knew what a Polish Fowl was.

‘A white topknot, sometimes known as the Tufted Hamburg.’

‘Extinct,’ said Hugh, laughing.

‘Like me.’ Matilda smiled. ‘I am almost extinct.’

‘Shall we have a bottle of wine? It would pass the time.’