‘Have I come at an awkward time?’ asked the reverend. The rain had stopped, and on the shining lawn the bric-a-brac from the summerhouse was like a small exhibition illustrating the past. There was, for example, the type of old-fashioned Dutch hoe his father had used in the garden at Meer. The reverend silently greeted it.

‘I saw your mother this morning,’ he said. ‘Much more her old self.’

‘Did they say when she can come back?’

‘Not exactly. But not long. A few days, perhaps.’ He looked for somewhere to sit but the bench had puddles of rainwater on it, and there was nowhere else. He thought: how miserable he looks, poor devil. Shifty too.

‘Larry will be here soon,’ said Alec.

‘Splendid.’

‘The day after tomorrow.’

‘You’ll meet him at the airport?’

‘Yes.’

‘Heathrow, I imagine.’

‘Yes. The early flight.’

With his handkerchief, Osbourne cleaned the sweat from his face. He didn’t care for running. ‘And how are you?' he asked.

‘I’m OK,’ said Alec.

‘Keeping yourself busy?’

‘There’s a lot to do.’

‘Is there? I suppose there is. The house. The garden. Your work, of course. Making some progress?’

‘A little.’

‘Lázár, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve certainly heard of him.’

‘They didn’t say when she would be back, then?’

‘The doctor’s making his rounds on Monday. With a bit of luck he’ll give the green light then.’ The reverend nodded, squinting at things quite randomly. It was foolish of him to have come without a plan, and now he was unsure how to go on. ‘The thing about faith,’ he began, quietly addressing a spider’s web that glittered and trembled with raindrops, a thing of fabulous intricacy under the eaves of the summerhouse, ‘is that it doesn’t have to come all at once. Road to Damascus, et cetera. You can believe for a morning. Or an hour, if that’s all you can manage. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Sorry?’ said Alec.

‘All I mean is that saying a prayer can help. It’s very natural when things are difficult. Some people think it’s hypocritical because they don’t pray when things are going well. But it’s perfectly all right.’

‘Don’t you have to believe that it will make some difference?’

The reverend paused. ‘Perhaps not even that.’ He pressed his hair into place with the flats of his hands. ‘We’re not alone,’ he said.

‘No,’ said Alec, feeling as he spoke the weight of his conviction that quite the opposite was true; that aloneness was what lay at the beginning and end of every argument. ‘Do you want some tea?’ he asked.

‘That’s very kind,’ said the reverend, ‘but I’ve decided to plant out my arum lilies today. If I see your mother first, any message for her?’

Alec shook his head.

‘Righto. I’ll tell her you’re keeping busy, then.’