Even now, despite the understanding Susan and I had finally arrived at for the sake of the children, I felt as if I couldn’t live with myself. No matter what the consequences I should at least have left my mark on that sleek olive face. I should have made him look a bit less like a matinée idol. I’d been taught once how to shatter a man’s eardrums, how to gouge out his eyes, how to make him a eunuch with one kick; I put my hand to my mouth and bit until it hurt, thinking of all the ways in which I could have hurt him and then trying not to think of them.

Suddenly I remembered Tom Larriman’s hair. Tom was a widower of seventy and very proud of his mane of white hair. He wore it long and washed it three times a week; there were some people in Dufton who said that he blue rinsed it a little. He died of cancer; for a week before he died you could hear his screams right across the street. He tore all that beautiful white hair off, scalped himself piecemeal. The pain of it was a dis­traction from the larger pain and it was, I suppose, a pain which he chose and could control.

I understood him now as I had not done in Dufton, closing the window of my bedroom to keep out those high-pitched screams. I bit my hand harder; it was beginning to throb. Then I took it away from my mouth, feeling sick. Slowly and with ex­treme care I eased myself out of bed; it seemed that if I changed position too abruptly I should be sick on the floor. I pulled my trousers on, sitting on the edge of the bed, and walked slowly along the landing.

I was cleaning my teeth in the bathroom when Barbara came in. I dropped the toothbrush and kissed her. For the first time since I’d stood outside the bedroom door last night I began to feel myself readmitted to the human race.

“Somebody was sick in the toilet,” she said.

“You dreamed it,” I said. I lifted her up to look at herself in the mirror. “There’s a cheeky face there,” I said. “I haven’t any pres­ents for a cheeky face.”

“I’m a good,” Barbara said. “Daddy, you were away a long time, weren’t you?”

“Too long,” I said.

“We went to tea at Uncle Mark’s yesterday, we did.”

I put her down. “I hope you enjoyed it, darling.”

“The cakes tasted funny. And Linda drinks tea. And the twins drink tea. Why do they drink tea?”