I set about Hereford as I had set about London: I wrote to the estate agents, I advertised in the local papers, I rang up the theatre management. It was impossible, negotiating over all that distance, and I could not keep going up and down to inspect things personally because of Flora and Joe’s feeds and the transport. In the end, when there was less than a fortnight to go before our removal, I accepted an offer of an ancient house in a long, low terrace of ancient houses, in the old part of the town. It was small, and the ground floor had been a stable and was now a garage. The only real alternative had been a modern and doubtless extremely ugly detached residence, in a row of other such residences, in an expensive quiet road. I knew that the house I had accepted would probably be falling to pieces, but I thought that I was prepared to put up with any discomfort for the sake of the possibility of a little dignity. Also, I like houses built not alone but as blocks. I like terraces and apartments.

You may ask, did I ask David’s opinion? No, I did not. He would have opted every time for the central heating and the small square garden. And how very right he would have been, in every way except the way in which I make my rigorous decisions.

And so, after the wonderful task of packing and despatching our clothes, our crockery, a carefully selected array of old china, embroidered screens, stone heads and so forth, all lovingly packed by me, with such pride in my own skill and efficiency, we finally arrived at Paddington Station just before midday, David and I, encumbered only by one small suitcase, our French girl, Pascal, Flora and a large plastic boat, and Joe in a carrying cot. We had arrived half an hour early, naturally, and had a reserved compartment. We put Pascal and Joe into the compartment, then David, Flora and I set off to have a look around the station. I must confess that I was quite excited: I like journeys, I like stations; it is not that I am full of hope, but I am easily filled with some kind of anticipation which could well be mistaken for it.

Flora, too, was very excited. She was walking between us, holding a hand each, very soberly; she was wearing, I remember, her red trousers and her brown corduroy coat. I am proud of her, in a painful way. We looked at the war memorial, and the shiny plaques on the platforms bearing the coats of arms of all the Western countries. David showed me that of the County of Wales, where he had been born and reared. I had never been there.