‘It’s my share of the stuff I gave him to start off with. You remember, a job lot from our attic? I thought of giving it to Oxfam, but I think if I give it to you to spend for Claud that would be best.’

‘I don’t understand.’ Margaret looked suspiciously at the glass of wine Terrence placed before her, hesitated, then raised it to her lips, drank.

‘Claud is writing a book, Margaret.’ Laura turned her attention to Claud’s mother. Claud had inherited her looks but was not yet as bruised by life. ‘Claud is writing a book,’ she repeated.

‘I know that.’ Margaret thought that she had never particularly liked Laura, or might not have liked her if she had ever got to know her well.

‘It is going to be very good. He is in full flow and may not have time for his stall.’

‘It’s just a phase,’ said Margaret dampingly.

‘It may turn out to be a very long phase; he is extremely talented, Margaret.’

‘Oh.’ Margaret swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘How do you come into this?’ Nothing irritated her more than being told about Claud, talented or otherwise, as though she were ignorant of his character. The more so since she suspected she was ignorant. ‘Of course, he is talented,’ she said.

‘He read me a bit of his work the other day; I thought it wonderful,’ said Laura. ‘I am off to London,’ she said reassuringly. ‘I shan’t be down here for ages. I have not the time to give it him myself.’

‘You could have posted it.’ Margaret put the money in her bag. ‘There was no need to make me come all this way from my new house. I am not living here any more, you know.’

Laura let this rudeness pass. She could not explain to Margaret her need to see her. She was not sure herself why she had desired the meeting. Was it part of her farewell to the neighbourhood? ‘How is the new house?’ she asked politely.

‘I like it very much. I like the garden, the village is delightful, there is so much to do. Evening classes, lectures.’ Margaret already regretted her rudeness, felt the need to give something to Laura. ‘I can plan my days,’ she said, ‘without having to consider other people. Claud, for instance,’ she smiled at Laura, ‘and shades of my late husband.’ She drank her wine. Perhaps she was giving too much? ‘My new house has no memories. Perhaps you cannot understand that?’ she said.

‘I understand very well.’ Laura signalled to Terrence to bring more wine. She thought of her London flat which held only herself. ‘You have found freedom,’ she said, ‘for the first time since you married. You will turn feminist next, go soap-boxing.’

‘You are making fun of me,’ said Margaret, smiling. ‘I can’t think why I am talking to you like this. I hardly know you.’