‘Matilda, hey Matilda, where are you?’ He thumped the back door, walked into the kitchen. Hugh slipped back into Matilda’s room, caught up Folly into his arms and dived into her hanging cupboard, bending down, pushing between the coats and dresses to the back where he sat down on a heap of cushions.

Mr Jones moved noisily about downstairs, talking to himself and the gander.

‘Where is she, then? I came early this morning. She wasn’t here, boyo, not here to see Jones. There, there, don’t honk so. You know me. You honked this morning but she’s fed you since. Ah, kettle’s hot. She’s had her breakfast, not put away the butter nor the marmalade. Don’t come in boy and make a mess, you know what she’s like.’

There was a listening pause. ‘Matilda? You ill or something, Matilda?’ Then steps on the stairs. Mr Jones was coming up. Hugh held Folly’s nose lightly.

‘Matilda, you in there?’ Steps in the room. ‘Not made her bed. Funny. Gone out in a hurry.’ The springs of the bed were bounced. ‘My, what a comfortable bed she has.’ Hugh held his breath. The cupboard door opened suddenly, letting in light. ‘Not in there either. Hardly be hiding in her cupboard. Must look in the garage.’ Then a loud shout as the footsteps retreated down the stairs. ‘Matilda! I know I bore you woman, but there’s no need to hide. I told you I won’t do it again, I told you!’ There was anger and pain in the voice, frustration. Mr Jones in the kitchen called for the last time.

‘Matilda?’

Hugh crept out of the cupboard, keeping well out of sight, looked down on Mr Jones. Short, thickset, a forest of a beard, thin strands of hair trained over a large head from ear to ear. From Hugh’s view-point the top of Mr Jones’ head looked like spaghetti junction. He stood looking about him with one hand stroking the strands into place. Presently he moved off to the garage, his feet slapping on the stone path. Hugh heard him say, ‘Gone out then. Where’s she gone, Gus? Ah me, poor Jones, I should have known better. I should never have tried.’ The gander honked and flapped dismissing wings. Mr Jones reached the gate. ‘You tell her, boyo, I’ll be back.’ The gander resumed his cropping, unmoved by the rather affected Welsh voice. Hugh swore. Damn the man, when would he be coming back? Obviously he’d got a lech for Matilda. He tidied Matilda’s bed. Fine thing if Jones had come in to find him in it. He sat on the edge of the bed considering what to do, idly thumbing through the book she must be reading at the moment. Rosamund Lehmann’s The Ballad and the Source – notes in pencil on the flyleaf in Matilda’s hand, but shaky: