So Margaret made a date with the house agent; her house was eminently saleable. She invited the man who kept the machine and tool stall in the market to call. He came next day and went away with most of her kitchen equipment. The cheque he gave her surprised her by its substance.

She sorted her clothes, ruthlessly reducing her wardrobe to essentials. Oxfam benefited, and the jumble sales more so.

She invited the second-hand booksellers to browse among her surplus books. Systematically she ransacked the house for objects suitable for Claud’s stall, packing them in cardboard boxes which she stowed in the boot of her car.

As she stripped the house of belongings, she cleaned it, erasing the patina it had acquired from her occupation, stripping it of its character, preparing it for the imprint of new owners.

When the estate agent brought some people to view, she was in the garden getting it tidy for a spring she would not be there to see. She answered the would-be buyers’ questions politely, but when they asked her how she could bear to leave such a charming neighbourhood, such an adorable convenient little house, she did not think it was any of their business and further questions froze.

She knew she was running away and felt guilty. Guilt cemented her determination to escape Claud. When the house agent telephoned the same evening to tell her the people were prepared to buy at the asking price on condition they could move in immediately, she accepted the offer with relief. The prospect of moving away was rejuvenating. She looked forward to it with joy.

‘Goodness, what are you up to?’ Laura, returned from London, stood in the porch. She looked over Margaret’s shoulder into the hall, interested and inquisitive. ‘Someone told me you were moving,’ she said. ‘I wondered whether your house would suit some friends of mine who are househunting. And another thing, have you any furniture you are parting with that I might—’ she let the sentence drop.

‘Why don’t you come in?’ Margaret stood aside. She guessed that the househunting friends were imaginary, but it was possible Laura was interested in furniture; in any case she could not stop Laura’s inquisitiveness without being rude. ‘Come in,’ she repeated.

‘Thanks,’ said Laura. ‘It’s a super house, how can you bear to leave it?’

‘Quite easily.’ Let Laura discover for herself that the house was sold.

‘Where shall you live?’

Margaret ignored this. ‘There’s a chest of drawers in Claud’s room I shall sell. I definitely won’t keep that.’

‘May I look at it? Where did you say you will live?’

‘I didn’t. D’you mind looking round on your own? I’m rather busy packing things for Claud’s stall.’

‘Of course not. Sorry to interrupt. Has he sold the stuff I gave him?’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I shall. Okay if I look round?’