Sure he had the better of her, he waited for her reply. Edith stared at him, unblinking. He looked anywhere and everywhere but at her.

‘I was only small when I saw your mother in our walnut tree,’ said Edith. Her self-assured voice hit the butcher as hard as if she’d struck him.

‘Have you lost your mind like your father?’ he said. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Your mother was wearing an embroidered shawl in purples and golds. I remember thinking that they were ugly colours in an ugly pattern. She told me that she’d been taken by the filth man and that she was waiting for her son at the crossroads to take him to hell where he belonged. She said more besides but I didn’t understand. I asked my grandmother what I should do. I had to tell your mother to leave me alone. I was too young to be told of your crimes. Your mother left, and I didn’t see her again. I once asked my grandmother if she had ever seen one of the bloodless. She said no, but that I had – your mother. I see her now too. She stands to your right, she breathes in your ear.’

The butcher’s eyes narrowed with rage. ‘How dare you speak my mother’s name.’

‘I never knew her name,’ said Edith, ‘but I knew she was your mother. I’m not afraid of you and I’m not afraid of death. If you kill me it matters little. But my advice is leave my father and me alone. You’ve got away with your part in Demetrius’ murder but it will be different if you lay a hand on my father or me. I know what you did, butcher. I know you.’

‘Father?’ Una was standing in the doorway.

The world came rushing back to the butcher and for a moment he wasn’t sure what he’d heard or where he was. His hands curled into fists, his knuckles white. An uncontrollable furnace of rage burned inside him at this creature, this woman who had the audacity to speak to him in such a manner about his mother.

Una, on her way to her father’s house, had heard his anger and seen the cabinet maker, motionless by the henhouse. From the verandah she’d listened to Edith’s calm voice and hadn’t dared move until that moment.

The butcher looked at her as if he didn’t recognise his own daughter. He pushed his lips together. ‘Ugly like your sister,’ he said. ‘Both of you, ugly. But at least you’re on my side.’

‘Father,’ said Una again.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘You asked me to come to your house,’ she said.

Only now did he realise he’d spoken the last words aloud. He pushed past Una into the yard.