“Yes. Yes. I suppose so.”

“Did you know, no, you didn’t, he and Humph, they both had a go at Emmy. Humph because he was, is, Humph, and Rick because of you. Christ, I’d never have believed it, never believed life could be like it. I tried to throw Humph out and he’d go no further than the spare room. Knew he was on to a good thing. The room’s there if you want it.”

“He’s really gone?”

“Scarpered. You’d never believed it.” She gestured to her body, cupping both hands. “He scarpered when this began to gallop. Left everything and ran, even left his Bisley gun and his big game books. When your turn comes, Wilf, don’t ask the doctors to tell you the truth. They do it.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You’re not a day older. Boozing, wenching, living it up—”

“Only boozing. And that—”

“Oh shut up. Of course you will again. The thing is, I need someone. That’s the fact of the matter and I won’t penalize Emmy, not any more. You know? Well. You don’t.”

“Not really.”

“Then I had my great idea. I got hold of Thomas and bullied your poste restante out of him. I thought I’ll get Wilf home if it’s humanly possible. He’s no idea of caring for other people but he’s too bloody weak to scarper. It’s blackmail, you see.”

“This is where we left off only backwards. More or less. Worse, perhaps.”

“So it is.”

Then we were silent again so you could hear the birds in the orchard and far off a whinny from the other end of the paddock. Elizabeth spoke in her natural, social voice, absurdly conventional.

“Won’t you sit down?”

“Well. Yes. If I may.”

So there we were, our feet on the warm floor, both seated, one each side of the empty grate.

“I’m sorry, Wilf. I didn’t mean it to be—I don’t know what I meant it to be.”

“When you are better again—”

“As you used to say, ha et cetera. Wilfred Barclay, the great consultant.”

“There must be something—”

“There’s everything you want in the spare room. Use that bathroom. I use the back one, have all my things there. Mrs Wilson’ll cook. Or you can go out. All the pubs do reasonable food these days. I can’t stand cooking.”

“Feed you up.”

“I don’t eat.”

“You should.”

“Don’t you know anything? Haven’t you seen anything?”

“The war—”

“God, the injustice of it! You booze and wench and lie and cheat and exploit and posture like a— I’ve put you to bed, lied for you, covered up for you—and I get cancer just as if I’d boozed away every year of my life!”

There was nothing to say. The shadows of the evening had crept right across the room. Facing me was a blur of brown skull with black eye sockets.

“You always were good at silences, weren’t you, Wilf?”

“It was more a case of you not giving me a chance to speak.”