As I let myself in through the back door I remembered snatches of what she had said. He’s himself, he’s a real man, he’s not afraid of the consequences. You’re like one of your bloody calculating machines, you’re not a real man at all . . .

I smiled and went into the kitchen. Suddenly her words had lost the power to hurt me. It was not a calculating machine that had looked at Norah; it was not a calculating machine that had taken the first step towards entanglement with her. And she wouldn’t be the woman for a man who was afraid of the conse­quences. I had my answers ready for Susan, and it wouldn’t be in words.

I cut a plateful of cheese sandwiches and took out a bottle of lager from the refrigerator. It was the first food and drink that I’d enjoyed that day; my breakfast had been spoiled by Susan’s silence, I hadn’t been able to eat any lunch, and our quarrel had made me leave my dinner – or rather high tea – almost untasted.

When I had finished my supper the idea of a large whisky be­came urgently attractive. I rejected it with no difficulty: to­night I didn’t need again to sit up drinking until the small hours, be­coming steadily more and more self-pitying and resentful as one whisky became two then three, then finally half a bottle. It was enough to remember that Norah had a tiny scar on her forehead which I hadn’t noticed before, that her hair unquestionably curled naturally, that when she had asked me whether I’d looked my fill at her she’d also, without any further words, asked me if I’d liked what I’d seen. It was enough too that now I could look at Larry Silvington’s murals and enjoy them simply as superior pin-ups; they could not hurt me and nothing in the house could hurt me.

I rinsed the glass and the plate and put them in the drying-rack. As I was going upstairs it was as if I were absolutely alone in the house. I didn’t even think of Barbara but instead felt again, with an almost ridiculous intensity, the warmth of Norah’s hand under mine. If I’d known of any prayer of thanksgiving to fit the occasion I would have knelt on the steps there and then. Show thy pity upon all prisoners and captives; but I wasn’t a prisoner any longer.

As I opened the door of Harry’s room I heard Susan’s voice.

“Is that you, Joe?”

“Who else would it be?” I said. I grimaced; I would have to remember not to say things like that again.

“Come here,” she said.