“Well, I think you’ve been very rash,” said her mother. “It will cause a huge rumpus if you turn up with it unannounced and the parents refuse to take it. The little girl will be terribly upset.”

Jean felt stung by this remark; she had wanted only to make Margaret happy and in her enthusiasm for her own ingenuity she had allowed herself to get carried away. It occurred to her that her mother was describing exactly what would have happened years ago if they had been the unprepared recipients of a gift rabbit. For a moment she was that disappointed little girl; it was unbearable.

“Oh hell, I was only trying to be kind,” she burst out, railing against criticism that she knew was just. “You had to spoil it.”

Her mother went rigid, blinking in silent protest at this crossing of uncrossable lines. Whatever their divergence of views, raised voices or confrontation were as unthinkable as a knife at the throat.

“It’s nothing to do with me,” she said at last in a brittle voice. “You must do as you see fit.”

Later, after dinner, they sat in the front room together listening to the Light Programme on the radio, friends again. Jean couldn’t apologize for her outburst; to do that would only acknowledge the unpleasantness. Better to agree, without discussion, that it had never happened. There were other, established ways to show contrition: an unequal division of the shepherd’s pie in her mother’s favor; an offer to massage her sore feet; a suggestion that they look—again—through Dorrie’s wedding album together.

The rabbit slumbered in Jean’s lap on a folded towel and allowed itself to be stroked. Its weight and warmth were surprisingly comforting, and she found herself half hoping that the Tilburys might refuse to accept it after all.

The shopkeeper had called round with the hutch as promised. It looked larger in a domestic kitchen than it had in the shop, taking up most of the space by the back door. Jean lined it with newspaper and straw, and tied the glass water bottle onto the chicken-wire window with elastic.

For now it had the fresh, green smell of new wood; it would very quickly acquire a less appealing animal scent, which none of the ordinary kitchen smells—Ajax, Gumption, spent matches, cooking—could quite mask. Of course in the normal way it would have to go outside—basic hygiene demanded it—but there was no sense in carting it down to the shed if it was going to a new home in a few days anyway.

“Quite a placid little thing,” Jean’s mother conceded on her way to bed.

Not fully committed to touching the rabbit, her outstretched hand hovered just above its head as though giving it a blessing.

“Howard?”

“Yes. Speaking.”

“Hello, Howard, it’s Jean Swinney.”

She had a cast-iron excuse for this call, which he was no doubt expecting and which gave her confidence, so her voice was quite steady. Whenever she thought back to their most recent conversation, she felt a mild panic at how much of herself she had revealed. Without the protective distance of the telephone between them she might have been less composed.