I put my feet on the trellis work beneath the guard rail. A gust of wind caught my hat; I automatically grabbed its brim. I turned away from the river and walked back into Market Street. The water had turned black again and I was not by myself; I hesitated outside the Great Western Hotel for a moment, then walked on towards St. Alfred’s.

As I approached it the clock struck ten. I looked back in the direction of the Great Western, I knew what I would be given there in exchange for a few coins; it wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but it was better than going straight home. The alcohol didn’t matter; what mattered was that there I should be among other people without the necessity to talk to them. For half an hour I’d have the sort of solitude that I’d gone out for, for half an hour I’d be, if not happy, anaesthetized.

It wasn’t enough, I decided. I turned left into Carmel Street. Standing outside the door, my finger on the bell push I began to feel self-conscious. Carmel Street was a street of red brick terrace houses, built at the time when the local stone had been worked out; it was a quiet street, a respectable street, a street of retired people and hands drawing aside curtains just far enough to see and not be seen.

For a married man to call on a young woman at ten o’clock wasn’t discreet anywhere in Warley; but particularly not here. Norah would hardly be pleased to see me. I pressed the bell again.

The door opened creakily. Norah stared at me.

“Joe. What on earth—”

“You might ask me in,” I said.

She put her finger to her lips and beckoned me to follow her. There was no light in the hall and only a dim light on the stair­way; the house smelled of damp and camphor and after my own house seemed cramped to the point of claustrophobia.

She ran up the stairs; when we reached the top landing she had to wait for a second so that I could catch her up. She half pushed me into the room, her finger still on her lips.

I sat down in the nearest chair, breathing heavily. She closed the door and stood over me frowning.

“My God,” she said. “You’re in dreadful shape.”

“In a worse state than China.”

She touched my coat. “You’re soaking wet. Take it off. You’ll ruin the beautiful Turkey carpet.”

She knelt by the gas fire. As she put a match to it I noticed again the strong curve of her back and the broadness of her hips, which the grey checked skirt she was wearing did nothing to con­ceal. The thought occurred to me that unlike most women she would look better naked than clothed.

“I’ve been for a walk,” I said.