A younger Matilda stared at the camera, her hair blown across one eye. ‘That’s Louise with Pa.’ The voice was dry. Louise, tall, exquisite, standing close, too close to her father. ‘Anabel.’

‘Oh, Anabel. It’s a bit blurry.’

‘It’s very good of Stub and Prissy.’

Anabel lay by the dog and cat who stared from eternity with enigmatic eyes. Another of Anabel, a better one – one wouldn’t get much change out of her. He put the snap down and picked up the last. Two exquisite girls in jeans, long fair hair, laughing eyes, long narrow legs, the one on the left so beautiful she leapt from the snapshot, so desirable she moved him.

‘That’s Claud – he’s still like that.’

‘I’m bowled over.’

‘Everyone is.’

‘No wonder he made trouble for the girls.’

‘There’s always trouble,’ Matilda said.

‘You love him the best.’

‘I do.’ Matilda picked up the snapshots and put them away. ‘Yes I do.’

Outside the house Gus honked. Matilda motioned Hugh out of the room.

‘You in, Mrs Pollyput?’

‘Yes.’

Hugh slid into the hallway.

‘Post.’

‘Oh, George, thank you. Only bills I bet.’

Hugh saw a man’s shadow, heard steps.

‘Looks like Claud’s writing.’

‘George, you are unethical. Like a cup of tea? Postmen shouldn’t pry.’

‘Wouldn’t say no.’ A chair scraped on the stone floor. Hugh risked a quick glance and stifled a laugh. This Claud’s postman? Large head, massive shoulders, ginger hair getting thin, a heavy brutish face.

‘How is Rosie?’

‘In whelp again.’

‘George, don’t be crude.’

‘She’s a bloody bitch, Mrs Pollyput.’

‘George, shut up! You love her. You are very happy.’

‘If you say so.’ George sounded sulky.

‘I do say so. It’s no use pretending anything else.’

‘It’s just this, Mrs Pollyput. Things might have been different. I feel trapped married, like every other fellow. Now it’ll be three kids. I might – well, when I see his writing, I just think, that’s all.

‘When you see Claud’s writing you should thank your lucky stars that Claud left you. God knows what would have happened. Get on with your job, George. You had a sniff of sulphur – be thankful for Rosie.’

‘You are right. I daresay it was the glamour.’

‘He’s not really glamorous, he’s a clown. He says here on this postcard he is hard up. Did you read it? I bet you did. Hard up means he’s been chucked out of another job or has quarrelled with his feller.’

‘Oh, Mrs Pollyput.’

‘Still owes you, does he? How much?’

‘Never mind, Mrs Pollyput. I’m sorry I read the card. It set me remembering.’

‘Push off, George. Give my love to Rosie.’ Footsteps faded, Gus honked, Matilda sighed.

‘Claud’s postman?’ She glanced at Hugh. ‘Rather unlovely.’

‘He picks them for contrast. Dreadful boy.’

‘Don’t pay his debts.’