She pauses in her reading, listening to Nora’s heels clump on the stair runner and her muted call of ‘Goodnight’ to Ted. His low response rumbles up through the floorboards. He is still here. She picks up the thread of the story and continues reading long after Tom’s silken lashes have dropped and his breathing has become soft and peaceful. She falls silent. Her pulse beats a little faster.

She closes the book and sets it down on the bedside table. She stands for a minute in the same pool of light that gilds her son’s slumbering features, then she turns down the lamp to a firefly’s glow, before plunging them into darkness. Still she makes no move to leave. She is aware of her shallow breathing, of her nervousness, but she gives herself a shake and scolds her foolishness. He is an old friend, she reminds herself, a neighbour … a stalwart in time of need. He regards her fondly and nothing more. She has wilfully misinterpreted his demeanour of late and by doing so she is putting their easy familiarity at risk. If she is not careful, she warns herself, her fearful notions will ruin their friendship beyond repair.

She leaves Tom’s door ajar and makes her way downstairs. She is reluctant to enter the sitting room, but she gives herself another no-nonsense talking-to and finally walks in as if nothing is wrong. Ted looks up over the top of the paper and smiles, and she knows at once – from the light in his eyes, the lift of his expression – that she has not been foolish in her suspicions after all, and her chest tightens with panic. The smile she summons feels more like a grimace, but she covers it by contriving a yawn which thankfully morphs into a natural one, rendering her less guilty as she hides it behind her hand.

‘Goodness, I must be more done in than I thought,’ she says, her voice artificially bright.

Ted averts his gaze to the fire – she suspects to cover the disappointment that troubles his features. Recovering himself, he closes the paper and neatly folds it in half, before setting it down upon the settee beside him. He pushes himself up.

‘I’d best leave you to it. I’ve probably overstayed my welcome as it is.’

‘Oh no, I didn’t mean …’ Gwen feels wretched. More wretched because he is exactly right.

‘No, no … it’s getting late … and you’ll be up early with the milking.’

‘Yes.’ She offers him a grateful smile.

‘Right, so I’ll be off.’