When the telephone pealed, which it did occasionally, they watched one another, counting the rings then waiting for it to stop.

‘The machine is broken.’

‘I taped it up for her. Stub knocked it over, he hated its noise, poor old dog.’

‘She could have a new one. It looks untidy.’

Ruminating over his next move Huw Jones muttered, ‘She is not a tidy woman. The house is usually a mess. She feels a mess, so death is logical, tidy.’

Thinking of his mother, Hugh exclaimed harshly, ‘I don’t find it tidy.’

Aware of Hugh’s thought, Huw moved a threatening Bishop.

They did not hear the lorry roll to a stop in the lane, though Folly pricked her ears and Gus honked.

‘Hullo,’ said Claud. ‘Where’s Mama?’

‘In London.’ Hugh looked up.

‘I telephoned.’ Claud looked from one man to the other. ‘An hour ago. I thought she must be out. She never goes away.’

‘She is.’ Hugh took in the full beauty of Claud in tattered jeans, worn suede jacket, Gucci shoes, dark brown eyes in sunburned face, improbable yellow hair, Matilda’s mouth.

‘She is away, she’s staying –’ began Mr Jones.

‘With loverboy Sir Piers to be.’

‘He’s not her lover.’ Mr Jones spoke crossly, jealously.

‘No? Why didn’t you answer the phone? Were you here?’ Claud looked from one to the other. ‘Oh, I see!’ he exclaimed. ‘The Matricide. Is Mama hiding you? Rather brave of her, sporting, jolly sporting. When will she be back?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’ Mr Jones’s voice did not disguise dislike. ‘Why are you here?’

‘I wanted to show her my find. I’ve a lorry of the most exquisite Delabole and Serpentine headstones. She’d like them. They were in a place I heard of in Cornwall.’

‘Pinched?’

‘No, Jonesy, not pinched. They were being – er – moved, lined up. Car parks now not graveyards. We move with the times, move to the New World.’

‘She’ll be back.’

‘I can’t wait, have to get them packed in the container. Pity. She would have liked them. She never goes away this time of year. Sorry to miss her. Must get them shipped.’

‘She –’

‘She hung up on me when I phoned, cut me off. I was about to say I might be around, couldn’t be sure.’ He looked Hugh over, grinning slightly, Matilda’s mouth, Claud’s expression. ‘Well then, another time. Give her my love. This her new dog? She can’t live without animals.’ He stroked Folly’s head as she stood on her hind legs, feet braced against his thigh, tail wagging. ‘Taken old Stub’s place, then?’ Patting the dog, he looked from one man to the other, the question ‘taking my father’s place?’ in his eyes. ‘How’s her terminal illness?’

‘Her what?’