His mother, he remembered, as he crouched with his hand in the water, had told him that in her youth, sent to Germany to learn the language, she had swum at night in the lakes. He remembered her voice.

‘We swam naked, darling. If we rode we took off the saddles and swam the horses. We held on to their manes and they drew us along. It was poetry.’

Hugh had been delightedly shocked, unable to imagine his mother so.

‘Naked?’

‘Yes, darling, naked boys and girls. Of course our parents thought we were all in bed.’

‘Together?’ Hugh had asked. His mother had said:

‘Don’t be improper. Of course not.’

‘Wasn’t the swimming improper then?’

‘It didn’t feel it. They were all young Nazis, strength through joy and so on, handsome creatures. Their father was a Graf – very pro-Hitler for a while.’

‘But Grandfather!’

‘Your grandfather sent me there to get a good accent. When I wrote to him about the Strength through Joy he came at once and fetched me home. He’d never bothered about the quarter of Jewish blood in my mother before, never thought about it.’

‘Poor mother.’

‘Well, the swimming was lovely, you should try it some time in a lake at night.’

He took off his clothes and waded into the water, trying not to make a splash. Folly followed. They swam out together. The dog came too close and scratched his shoulders. Hugh swam out to the middle of the reservoir, thinking of his mother, trying to visualize her swimming in Germany, but it was Matilda he thought of who, having had enough, had been about to swim out to sea. He turned back to find his clothes. He dressed while Folly shook herself and rolled in the rough grass by the water’s edge.

He walked back slowly, astonished at the distance he had covered on his walk. His mother was right, the swimming was good. He decided to do it again. There was no need to tell Matilda, who would worry and push her hair up in a crest. What had she had enough of, he wondered? Loneliness? People adjusted to being alone. Was she bored? Certainly not ill. She appeared to have the wherewithal to live without undue worry. Guilt? Not guilt – she barely remembered killing that woman – he was half inclined not to believe it. What then? What? He was very tired when he got near the cottage, anxious for food and sleep. In his scullery Gus honked loudly. Hugh stopped. Gus could not have heard him yet. Folly pricked her ears. Hugh stood at the edge of the copse. A figure was creeping round the cottage, a short thickset man with a beard. He peeped in at the windows, funnelling his eyes with both hands to look in, moving from window to window, trying the back door. Gus honked.