Hugh wondered why she had said twice that she loved them. It tinged of doubt. He stuck down the envelope and went back to the room to replace it. He closed the drawer and lay down on Matilda’s bed. Folly, who had kept silent company, got up and lay sighing, pressing her nose against his neck, her breath warm and damp.

‘She must be about fifty.’ Hugh put his arm round the dog. ‘She hasn’t quite swept herself out of the house,’ he whispered to the dog. ‘She left her anxieties about their subsequent behaviour. Poor fare.’ Hugh sighed and repeated ‘poor fare’ which made him feel hungry. Matilda would be arriving in London about now. ‘Let’s get some food and then get out.’ He stroked the dog who was making a draught with her tail.

Downstairs he fed her, made tea and ate a tin of tuna fish with pepper and raw onion, then lay again on Matilda’s bed until it grew dark.

He let himself out of the back door, locked it and set off across the fields, desperately in need of exercise.

He walked up the valley, taking his bearings by the stars. The air was clear, the country very still. Walking across the fields, trying not to disturb sheep and cattle, he zigzagged to find gates, kept on uphill. Cars drove occasionally along the lane but he kept below the skyline, gaining confidence as he walked, feeling his unused muscles working easily. Near the top of the valley he came to the village – a post office, one pub, a church, scattered houses, two farms in the village itself. He debated whether to try and skirt round but decided to walk through. It was September, there would still be holiday people about, he would not be conspicuous. The pub was surrounded by parked cars, a cheerful hubbub came out of open windows. Dogs barked as he passed the farmyards. Folly closed in on his heels. From the houses came the sound of television, music and loud laughter. Beyond the village a stretch of road, then a wood, a stile, a path sign-posted. He climbed the stile and followed the path, disturbing a pair of lovers. It led through the wood, over a stretch of moor to the top of a hill, turning left downhill. He stopped to get his bearings. Below and behind him lights from scattered houses and farms, the headlights of cars probing along the main road, far off the red glow of the town. To his right, away from the path and below it was a long reservoir, silver from the rising moon slicing the black water. He jogged down-hill to the water’s edge. Folly drank. Hugh felt the temperature of the water. He listened. There was no sound other than faint rustling in the reeds.