After Brown had closed the meeting I looked in their direc­tion again. They had gone; I pushed my way out of the Council Chamber, affecting not to notice either George Aisgill, at whose home I’d made a vague arrangement to call, or Mrs. Fulwood, who was making her way towards me with a sheaf of typescript which I knew contained thirty-two questions – or rather com­plaints – about the Park Ward.

I looked around for Graffham’s Ford Popular, then saw it in Horner Place, a little cul-de-sac at the other side of the street. I crossed over and tapped gently at the front passenger window. Norah cranked it down.

“I hope you had a profitable evening,” I said.

“It wasn’t entirely wasted,” she said. “I note you’re applying for a compulsory purchase order for the Palace site after all.”

“Are we?”

“You voted for it,” Graffham interjected.

“I suppose I must have done. It was so damned hot in there that I could hardly keep awake . . .” Norah’s hand was on the window-sill. I put mine over it. “Except when I looked at you,” I said to her.

Graffham started the engine. “May I remind you that you have to phone in your copy, Norah?” he said. “If Councillor Lamp­ton will excuse you.”

She paid no attention to him. “You looked your fill, didn’t you?” she asked me.

“No,” I said. “I’m just beginning. Can’t we have a drink some­where?”

She withdrew her hand gently. “You heard what Peter said. I’ve work to do.”

“You can phone from my house.”

Graffham revved the engine.

“Your wife mightn’t welcome visitors at this hour,” she said. “Goodnight, Councillor Lampton.” She closed the window.

“It’s Joe,” I said; but the car was already moving off.

I crossed the road again and got into my own car. The meeting had taken much longer than usual: as I drove along Market Street the sun was setting. Over Sindram Grange the sky was striped pale pink and white like peppermint candy; the delicate colours seemed to me a confirmation that the evening which had begun so badly was now ending well. Whether anything came of it or not, Norah had acknowledged my existence: she wouldn’t be able to go back on it.

When I reached Harling Crescent I saw with relief that the curtains of the front bedroom had been drawn. Susan had gone to bed early, as she had done for six out of the nine nights we had now slept apart. I wouldn’t have to listen to her, I wouldn’t have to look at her, I wouldn’t have to smell her damned Turkish cigarettes, I wouldn’t have to watch every word in order to pre­vent the continuation of the quarrel she’d begun just before I set out for the Town Hall.