Thinking of Natalie and Sophy Brent and Michael Fenwick, I sat down once more and watched the wet, grey-green countryside, where the beginnings of leaves hung on the bushes in their first painful prickings. And I, too, was full of buds and nervous colour, after my impersonal childbearing winter. There would be, in Hereford, a whole new society waiting for me, and who could say what I might not find, a friend, an enemy, a lover, or that somebody like myself that I see once a year in the back of a passing taxi or drawing the curtains of an upstairs room? And how nice, how nice all this open grassy land would be for the children: what picnics, what sunbathing, what walks by the river we could have.

When we arrived at Hereford, it was pouring with rain. I did not think quickly enough as we unpacked, with the result that the few available taxis were filled with Natalie Winter, Sophy Brent and various other characters before we had passed the ticket barrier. We had to wait in the rain for one to return. I was annoyed: I felt that David would think I should have thought about this problem, although I knew at the same time that such a reflection would never cross his mind and that waiting in the rain did not upset him in the least. When we finally got off, I noticed that the streets looked amazingly depressing. I told myself that this was simply the nature of all station approaches, but there was very little improvement in the decor before we arrived at our destination. The house itself did not look too bad, and the street had a certain low-built, peeling, historical look, but the wetness and greyness were enough to damp any enthusiasm. I had so hoped it would be sunny.

But the exterior of the house was nothing on the inside. The front door let one into a large garage, where our packing cases were waiting for us and a narrow uncarpeted staircase led up to the first floor, which was the habitable part of the dwelling. I did not mind that unconventional approach, though I did not like the fact that the staircase was not boxed in and the banisters looked far enough apart for Flora to squeeze through if she tried, as she inevitably would try. What lay at the top of the stairs, however, was too grim for words. It was not the bricks and mortar, it was the furniture.