‘Okay.’ Matilda took a candle to the larder. Hugh watched her bend down, reaching for a bottle, and thought that for her age she had good legs, a good bottom. He opened the bottle, poured the wine. Matilda sat opposite him in the candlelight. Overhead and all round the hills the thunder groaned and rumbled. The rain spat down.

‘I am an habitual liar,’ Matilda remarked conversationally. ‘I find it almost impossible not to embroider. Anabel is as bad.’

Hugh nodded.

‘When I said Tom went to Paris to meet a friend and you said he went to meet Death I thought that sounded so good I’d let it go. I lied by default. In fact I don’t like Paris. Tom knew there was no question of my going with him. When he wanted to go to Paris he went on his own. The friends he was meeting were his friends, not mine. Neither Tom nor I thought he would meet death. That was not in our plans at all. He had a heart attack in the rue Jacob – dropped dead.’

Hugh stayed silent.

‘The children were all grown up. They had their lives. We were busy still with ours but –’ Matilda pushed her hair away from her face, drank some wine. A slight draught made the candles flicker. Her eyes looked dark in their sockets. ‘But Tom and I were aware of what was coming. Tom called it “La dégringolade”. He could not bring himself, as I do, to call it disintegration. You looked surprised when I talked of a wrinkled bottom. However well and fit you are the flesh grows old. We had been young together, loved, fought, had children, ups and downs, a tiring, insecure life but not a boring one. We talked to each other, Tom and I. We decided when we were still in our prime not to allow ourselves to crumble into old age where you are dependent on others, your powers fail, you repeat yourself, you become incontinent. The children try their best, then put you into an old people’s home with nothing to look forward to but the geriatric ward. That is what we both minded about age, the keeping alive of useless old people. He and Louise used to have a game: how many children could eat if old people were allowed to die? Millions.’

Hugh watched her drink more wine. Presently she went on.

‘We decided we would leave no mess behind, nothing for the children to quarrel over. We would leave no messages, we would not let them know us once we were dead. Our children were not interested in how we had lived or felt, so our letters – when we were in love we wrote many letters, people did – we would destroy them. If they are ever interested it will be too late, we said.’

‘Rather nasty of you.’