The footsteps went on up the stairs. Matilda let out her breath. She snatched up a pair of shoes from the rack, let herself out of the flat and ran down to the street. In Gloucester road she bought a carrier bag and put the shoes in it. The shop girl looked at her briefly, then away to the next customer while she held out her hand with the change.

She asked in a fruit shop where the nearest post office would be and walked steadily along the pavement towards it. She was sweating with retrospective fear. Her feet hurt in their thin soles on the London pavements. She hoped she looked unobtrusive among the throng of foreigners pushing and barging towards the tube.

‘Qu’est-ce qu’elle fait ces jours-ci, Madeleine?’

‘Il parait qu’elle fait le trottoir.’

‘C’est pas vrai. Elle ne s’est donc pas mise avec un Suisse?’

‘Comme elle doit se barber!’

Perhaps Madeleine’s feet had hurt on the trottoir? Matilda pushed into the post office, joined a queue edging slowly towards the counter. Her feet swelling unbearably, she waited, holding Hugh’s keys in her hand. As she moved slowly up the queue she took the keys off her nightdress ribbon, putting the ribbon back in her bag. When at last she reached the counter she found herself face to face with an Indian, whose sad eyes looked through her.

‘A registered envelope please, medium size.’

Delicate fingers pushed the envelope towards her. She paid. He would not know her again, this man imprisoned behind the counter, so infinitely more dignified than nose-picking Mr Hicks. Mr Hicks feeling superior with his itchy nose and putty-coloured skin would call him a nig-nog or coon.

‘Next please.’ The Indian waved three fingers just a trifle. She was holding up the queue staring.

‘Sorry.’ Matilda blushed, hurried to a counter and addressed the envelope to herself, put in the keys, first wrapping them in a telegraph form, licked up the envelope, closed it firmly, pressing hard, then posted it. Overwhelmed with relief she went out to the street and waited to take a taxi which was disgorging some Arab ladies outside an hotel. After giving John’s address she sat back, easing her feet from their tight shoes.

That evening at Wheelers she greedily ate a dozen oysters and a sole and listened with pleasure to John’s description of a day’s fishing on the Test, conscious that with her hair properly cut she looked more than presentable in Anabel’s dress and glad that Louise took shoes a size larger than she did.

‘London pavements are death to my feet, John dear, does it show in my face – Piers, I mean.’

‘You look younger than I’ve seen you look since Tom died, if I may say so. You look splendid, Matty. What are you doing these days?’

‘Just living, John – Piers.’