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.

‘It’s not good to let things fester. He should have confided in you.’

‘Well, he didn’t.’

‘He should have.’

‘Claud’s business is Claud’s business.’

‘And you are not interested?’

Margaret shot a spiteful glance at her tormentor, poured her a mug of tea with a steady hand.

She’d like to throw the pot at me, thought Laura. ‘You’ll grow out of this,’ she said and put two lumps of sugar into her mug, plop, plop.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You will grow out of wanting shot of Claud.’ Laura stirred her tea.

‘God!’ said Margaret. ‘I don’t know what you are doing here. I didn’t invite you. I don’t know why you are interested in Claud—’

‘He’s pretty, he’s intelligent—’

‘You are old enough to be his mother—’

‘Sure.’

‘As his mother I have every right to let him lead his own life—’

‘And not tangle with yours?’ Laura’s eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘You want to live somewhere where you can twiddle the knobs of your own television, choose your own programmes, go to bed without the fear of being woken by Claud coming in drunk and being sick before he can reach the loo. You don’t want to be bothered by his heart cracking about the place over some idiot girl. You are abdicating parenthood.’

‘You have been spared parenthood,’ said Margaret, ‘you prying bitch.’ She said in friendly accents, ‘Tell me, was it your uncle who attacked Claud?’

‘My uncle?’

‘Nicholas.’

‘Oh, Nicholas. I rarely think of him as my uncle. I couldn’t think what you meant for a moment. Yes, it was. He was cross because I gave Claud junk from the attic. It was a mistake to tell them. I should just have helped myself, they would never have noticed. It was my innate honesty.’

Margaret sniffed.

‘They are funny about possessions,’ said Laura.

‘They are funny full stop,’ said Margaret. ‘I’ve often heard their house referred to as the Funny Farm.’ This was not true, but it pleased Margaret to say it. She found herself blaming Laura for Claud’s drunkenness, his black eye, his being sick in the hall, none of which she had minded much at the time since, compared with her late husband’s behaviour, it was mild stuff. ‘If you are passing anywhere near Claud’s loft would you drop some boxes of knick-knacks and china I’ve packed up for his stall?’

‘All right, I’ll go. I can take a hint,’ said Laura, putting down her empty mug. ‘Where are these boxes?’ she asked, unruffled.