It is boring, perhaps, if I repeat that I had no way of passing the time. Only those with small children can appreciate how little and how much they occupy the mind and the day. David was not at this point rehearsing, but he was playing every evening and two matinees a week, and spent most of the rest of the time in the pub. One day I went out for a walk. David had taken Flora to the barber’s with him, Joe was asleep in his pram and Pascal was washing her hair, so that I thought that now it was summer it was my duty to go for a walk. I started off with the cathedral, where I inspected the Mappa Mundi, the tomb of Chancellor Swinefield with its sixteen gaily dressed small pigs; I was followed on this visit by two fair-haired pale, squiffy youths, wearing shiny black boots and pale blue jeans with the bottoms rolled up, who went round the place trying every locked door and window. They were giggling to themselves, and I could not decide whether I was their audience or whether I was simply negligible. I watched them with unobtrusive dignity. I could predict, after a few assays, their every movement, just as with Flora I could see in advance which hassock she would next unhook, which steps she would ascend, into which hole she would thrust her finger. Their crowning effort arrived when we reached the font, a huge solid ancient piece of stone, covered with a mighty lid. I walked past it, then stopped to read an inscription on the wall. They followed me, until the font attracted their delinquent attention; the larger of the boys, with one eye on me and the other on his task, advanced on it and took hold of the great iron ring on top of the lid. The younger said something like “Go on, you never,” whereat, like a film Hercules, the boy heaved at it and got it up. He held it triumphantly in the air, six inches above the stone basin, with a tremendous look of satisfaction, before he let it thud back into position. I was very impressed. I openly watched. When I moved off again, towards the door, they started to follow me once more. I was just about to go out when, amidst much giggling and whispering, one of them said, more to the other than to me:

“You from the theatre, miss?”

“In a way,” I said, not turning round, but not wishing to be misleading.

“Thought you was, miss,” said the other. “Mind if we walk along with you a bit, miss?”

“I don’t suppose so,” I said as we emerged from the leathery interior into the sunlight, “though I don’t suppose we’d get very far, would we? I’m going to the shops now, anyway.”