“The child sees it. She doesn’t know, she can’t know, what causes it, but she sees it. And so can Harry.”

“What am I supposed to do about it? Should I feel grateful to Mark? Should I send him an illuminated scroll expressing my profound gratitude? Shall I tell you what I’d like to do to him?”

I told her, making it as ugly as I could in the hope of shock­ing her into an admission that she still cared what happened to him; but disappointingly her face remained undisturbed. She wasn’t even disgusted, because she wasn’t listening; my voice trailed away into a repetition of obscenities.

“Have you finished, Joe?”

“I haven’t begun. You’ll find that out one of these days.”

“What’s the use of talking like that?” she said, wearily. “It’s only your pride that’s hurt, not you.”

“I don’t see the distinction.” I poured myself a large whisky.

“That’s your trouble, Joe. That’s what will destroy you if you’re not careful. You’re full of pride and hatred. You always were. You hate my father, you hate my mother, you hate almost everyone you work with, and you always did.”

The wallpaper in the drawing-room had no definite pattern, but cream predominated slightly over gold in vertical stripes. There was no sharp difference between the two kinds of stripe; that was one of the reasons for it being so expensive. I found my­self suddenly resenting it, suddenly finding it too much in good taste. It was as if it were in someone else’s house; like the parquet floor, like the Grundig radiogram, like everything else in the room, it cost more than I could afford. I put the drink down untasted.

“I’m going out,” I said.

“That’s what I expected,” Susan said. Her voice was con­sciously calm. “You’re very good at running away, aren’t you?”

“What do you want? In Christ’s name what do you want? Haven’t I done enough for you? Haven’t I eaten enough dirt? What more do you want?”

She put her hand on my arm. “Joe, be calm. Be calm, honey, be calm. You’re shouting. You’ll wake the children.”

The kindness in her voice made me feel inexplicably guilty. I wanted to put my head in her lap, to weep safely and warmly; yes, I thought with astonishment, I am sorry, I want to tell her that I’m sorry, but for what am I sorry?

“I’ll be reasonable,” I said. My throat felt constricted; the words were difficult to utter. “I promise I won’t be angry. But tell me what you want.”