‘That’s the idea.’

‘Quelle revanche.’

‘It is my eldest son, he is such a respectable man –’

‘Like his father, perhaps?’

‘No, not a bit.’

‘What is called “a sport”?’

‘Yes, just that. Here comes your daughter. Thank you for listening to me. I should have liked to tell you about my two women friends.’

‘The one who said she had slept with your husband, the other that he was homosexual?’

‘How did you know?’

‘That is an old trick. Have a happy death.’

‘Goodbye.’

Matilda left him and, feeling cheered, took a taxi to the Hayward Gallery and thence, on her way back to John’s house, to the Tate. She would have liked Claud to meet that old man. She made a quick little prayer for Claud, ejecting it from her mind like a cartoon bubble. If there was ‘anybody’ about to hear it, perhaps he would do something for Claud?

As she waited on the pavement outside John’s house for the taxi driver to give her change she began to hum,

‘There’s a small hotel

By a wishing well

I wish that we were there, together.’

‘My Mum and Dad used to sing that song.’ The taxi driver counted the change into Matilda’s palm. ‘Said they danced to it.’

‘I did too.’ Matilda separated the change for the tip.

‘Stood up hugging?’

‘Yes, we hugged as we danced. We hung on to one another.’

‘Shocking, you does that –’

‘In bed?’ Matilda laughed. ‘We did a lot of hugging upright. I don’t see the point of dancing separate from your partner.’ She gave him her tip. He drove off laughing. ‘Funny old girl.’

20

IF MATILDA HAD known that Hugh was spending the nights walking the countryside and swimming in the reservoir she might have worried.

He came in before dawn, slept until lunch when Mr Jones came to feed Gus, a task he had taken upon himself, and to chat. What Mr Jones wanted to chat about was Matilda.

‘I love the woman.’ Huw Jones sat at the kitchen table, resting his beard in his hands.

‘Does she reciprocate?’ Hugh was making a pot of tea.

‘She does not. She was in love with Tom, that is what she thinks.’

‘She wanted to die because she can no longer live without him.’

‘That is the uppermost version.’

‘Oh, what’s underneath?’

‘Who knows? Does my Matilda know herself?’ Mr Jones threw out a dramatic enquiring hand. ‘She has a great talent for putting matters out of her mind.’

‘Your Matilda?’

‘Alas not. There was an attempt, a brief scuffle it was but –’

‘But what?’

‘She pushed me downstairs. I might have broken a bone. I tried to clasp her in my arms but she pushed.’

‘What were you doing upstairs?’