“Don’t worry, I’m really very happy here, you know,” and he released the gear lever and took my hand: he was at that moment turning a corner, at a speed quite concealed by the nature of the car’s motion, and as we went round in the narrow country road we overtook an apparently stationary van, passing it silently with a few inches to spare. He had not counted on it, we had very nearly had an accident and yet the speed and silence with which it had happened made it seem an hallucination. His grasp on my hand tightened very slightly, and that was the only concession we made to what might have been some kind of end.

I got to bed just after one. We had agreed to meet the next week, after the opening of the first two plays, in the lull before rehearsals for the last play of the season began.

“Think about me,” he said as we parted.

“I’ll think about you,” I said. “I think about most things, I won’t miss you out.”

I took David’s copy of Who’s Who in the Theatre to bed with me, and guiltily, like a schoolgirl looking up ominous, suggestive words in the dictionary, I looked him up: Wyndham Farrar, it said, director, born Grantham, s. of Percy Edward Farrar, F.R.C.S., and Laura Montefiore, e. Oundle and Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, served in the Middle East during the war and worked in Far East for ENSA, 45–7, subsequently worked in rep at here and there; and then there followed a list of his successes in this country and in America. He had directed three television plays and two experimental films, apart from his stage work, and had written a book called The Art of Transience, published 1952. His recreations were listed as travelling and cricket, and his address was an address in Wimple Street. I had known about his career, enough at least to know that the otherwise impressive book he had written was largely a collection of his dramatic journalism. What really caught my attention was that born Grantham, s. of Percy Edward Farrar. F.R.C.S., and Laura Montefiore, for these words seemed to contain the key to some mystery. I did not know why, but they seemed to explain what he was doing in Hereford, and his whole nonchalant attitude to a profession that most pursue with burning, never resting zeal.