She took the dress out of the wardrobe and laid it on the bed. As she did so she saw that there was a pin still in the hem. She lifted the skirt to take it out. It had not been used in mending the dress. It pinned a white square of paper to the cloth. She pulled it out, and read the words which had been written on it. The words said: He should have been mine.

She took no notice and threw the paper on to the bed. It meant nothing to her then.

Chapter Three

The hall had been decorated with streamers and more of the heart-shaped balloons. Maggie and Agnes had been there all morning, laying the tables, preparing food. Sandy arrived at the hall first. In Sandwick Agnes was still trying to calm Mary and herself, and he welcomed the peace of the empty hall. He helped himself to a glass of whisky. The women had made a fine job of preparing the hall. He would not let Jim down in front of his smart English bride. The room was arranged like a second wedding reception, with the tables set out in a traditional horseshoe shape. The bride and groom and immediate family would sit at the top table. There was another wedding cake. Everything would be done in the proper way.

Agnes arrived then with Mary and Will, and soon the other guests came in, stamping the mud from their shoes, calling out to each other as if they had not met for months. Sandy and Agnes greeted them as they arrived, handing out small glasses of whisky. Everyone was dressed up. The men wore dark, old-fashioned suits, the women their smartest dresses. Mary stood behind her parents. She, too, was neatly dressed but she still wore the green silk scarf which George had admired in the afternoon.

George Palmer-Jones followed the Drysdales into the hall. He had been put to sit with them at the end of one of the tables—a small group of outsiders. As they waited for Sarah and Jim, Sylvia gave him her full attention. Jonathan might not have been there. He felt flattered by her interest and found that he was putting into words ideas which he had discussed with no one else, not even his wife.

“How are you enjoying retirement?” Sylvia asked. “ You seem to be busy.”

“Yes. I’m always very busy, but not in a particularly satisfying way.”

“What do you mean?”

He considered. “I think that I miss the structure, the discipline of work.”

“Are you thinking of going back to work, then?” She smiled at him in a sympathetic, encouraging way. She was leaning over the table towards him, and the copper hair fell over her shoulders, so that he could see the bare, creamy skin at the back of her neck. He remembered his work as a civil servant in the Home Office, part administrator, part policeman.