Gertrude stands and goes to the wall where her broom is hung. She examines its brush, plucking some broken birch twigs from it. ‘I have light enough to clean by now,’ she says.

‘Is this not good news?’ Conn says.

He rises and goes to the door, puts his hand into the light. It is hot against his fingers, unfamiliar. His skin shines white; this is some new kind of heat.

‘The curfew is not over,’ she says, beginning to sweep. ‘Sickness rages; and you would do well to stay indoors. Curfews do not end themselves. There are great declarations, formal rites, not unseen meddlers casting doors open, exposing the decent people inside them to gossip and the violence of the street.’

‘I must go,’ he says. ‘I must see Dervorgilla.’

Straight away, he knows he has made a mistake. Gertrude crumples against the wall as though she has been punched, dropping the broom. Quickly regaining her composure, she stoops and picks up the broom, and this all in one fluid movement.

‘What ails you?’ Conn asks.

A true man, she feels, would ignore this weakness; would be sensitive enough to leave me at least my pride, but here I am dealing with a half-boy; not one thing or the other.

‘I am not used to the fresh air,’ she explains. ‘Living in this coop, I have grown clumsy. Perhaps I am getting old.’

‘Yes, perhaps,’ Conn says.

He is not even listening to her. What is left, she thinks, of this boy I adored?

‘So, it is her,’ Gertrude says. ‘She is married; and has a child. Yet youth seeks youth. It could be true that I have been blessed to not have had too much company throughout these last few years. It is bothersome, no matter how I have craved it.’

She begins to sweep again.

‘I don’t know any more. I speak too much. I’m ranting,’ she says. ‘Go. I do not want to see you any more. I have had too much company this last few days. I’m tired of speaking; tired of it. My heart is too sore from idle talk.’

‘I will come back,’ Conn says.

He has already become a coward, she thinks, the type that does not even have the decency to look you in the eye when they lie to you. I was too enamoured to recognise that somewhere along the way his loveable qualities were aborted by the ruthless passing of time.