‘I’ll be scrubbed!’ She pushed her hair back, a twinkle in her eyes. They assessed him through a new pair of polka-dot-framed glasses. ‘God, your face.’

He had forgotten her slight lisp. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You look like a moping cod fed on phytoplankton.’

Before he could answer: ‘I know what you’re here for. Come.’

She led the way, limping slightly, down a passage and into a drawing room. The room is large and untidy, with high ceilings and tall windows onto a garden – and at once feels well-heated compared with Dyer’s in Jericho. On the right, beside the entrance to a conservatory, is a long comfortable-looking sofa with a torn arm. Photograph albums are scattered, open, on the lumpy cushions. There is a green baize-covered card table with a silver hand mirror and books on it, and a tapestry and paintings on the wall. To the left, the room opens into a kitchen area. A radio on the counter is playing classical music, and a long-haired black-and-white dog bounds about, a streak of mud on one of its ears.

‘Apologies for the mess, I only got back last night.’

From a package holiday to Paguera, reduced, at the last minute, to one third of the original price – ‘a hideous resort with quite a nice view from my balcony’.

She always became depressed in Oxford in February, she said.

Having sat under a Mediterranean sky and read for four days, Miranda had returned home tanned, with dappled brushstrokes on her cheeks from where the sun had coloured her face through a straw hat. The hat – battered-looking, with a yellow-and-red college band – hung on an antler above a wooden armchair on which she gestured for him to leave his shoulder bag.

‘You got my parcel?’ he said.

‘I did.’

‘Thanks for keeping mum.’

‘Who’s that?’ came a voice from the conservatory.

‘Speaking of which …’ she laughed.

A white-haired old woman with grey eyes pushed into the light, her hands gripping a metal frame on wheels. Her round cross face had the texture of an abalone shell, with smooth pink patches between wrinkles.

‘Mummy, this is John.’

‘Of course it is. Nothing wrong with me,’ and fixed him. Her eyes were two glasses that needed to be rinsed. She held out her arms. ‘Is Miranda treating you well?’

‘Very well.’

‘She’s a good girl at heart.’ Her hold was clammy for such thin hands.

‘Mum, why don’t you go and sit down, and I’ll bring it to you.’

He had interrupted Miranda as she was making an omelette.

‘Wait till I’ve done this,’ she said to him as her mother shuffled and squeaked towards the card table, ‘then I’ll find your envelope.’

A pan was heating on the stove. She turned the gas back up. ‘I must say, it was exciting to be treated as a poste restante. It’s something earth-shattering, I hope.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, failing to smile.