‘Please do.’ Margaret moved towards the stairs. Let her pry on her own. Why should Claud be beholden to this woman? She watched her climb the stairs, then took a tray and stacked it with a tea set she had thought that morning she would keep. Now she decided to give it to Claud. As she wrapped the cups and saucers in newspaper she heard Laura moving about and thought, not for the first time, that while the outer walls of the cottage were thick, the inside was by no means soundproof. In the past she had heard much she would rather not, not only from her husband but from Claud, too. She could leave these echoes behind.

‘How much do you want for the chest?’ Laura rejoined her.

Margaret named her price.

‘Okay, fine, I’ll have it. I need one. I found this when I pulled out the drawers.’ Laura handed an envelope to Margaret. ‘Snaps of a girl. She’s pretty. Friend of Claud’s?’

Margaret took the envelope, looked at the snaps. She knew at once that this was an oblique sign from Claud. She did not recognise the girl. This would be the girl he had so often telephoned, who had wrung him out like a dishcloth, taken to hanging up on him, ceased to exist in his life.

‘Oh, that’s Amy,’ she said, furious to feel her neck flush, her voice alter. ‘Well, like a cup of tea? I was about to make one.’

‘Why not? Thanks.’ Laura followed Margaret to the kitchen. ‘You’d never seen that girl, had you?’ Laura sat at the kitchen table. ‘I suppose he was in love with her. I suppose she chucked him. Badly hurt, was he?’

She had made him fail his exams. This was some sort of message; obviously he couldn’t bear to talk about the girl, the girl he had called Amy, shouting the name into the unresponsive telephone. Laura was still speaking. ‘But you never met her, did you?’

‘How do you know?’ It popped out.

‘Your expression. An oh dear that’s cat’s-mess face.’

Margaret laughed. ‘It always gives me away. You haven’t got friends looking for a house, have you? You are interested in Claud.’

‘That makes two with intuition. Yes, I find him interesting, easily hurt I’d say, vulnerable. One wouldn’t want to hurt him.’

‘I wouldn’t suggest you would. How old are you?’

‘Forty-five.’

‘I am fifty-five. I had him when I was thirty-two, rather old to start a family.’

‘Which makes him twenty-three.’

‘Yes, poor boy.’

‘Poor boy, poor boy,’ Laura laughed. ‘He needs boosting, jollying up, that’s all.’

‘I’ve tried. Failed lamentably.’

‘Your heart isn’t in it.’

‘My heart is battle fatigued,’ said Margaret.

Laura grinned; she enjoyed teasing people. She watched Margaret making tea, putting out mugs, bending to take milk from the refrigerator, reaching into a cupboard for sugar. ‘I’ll find out what she did to him and let you know.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t.’ Margaret was repressive.