The wedding was so close. It seemed an inappropriate time to accuse the father of the bride of nameless crimes. I grew even more cowardly and began to consider the quality of bravery. Mrs Raffald was brave. I wished I could tell her about it, but the prospect reminded me of something my love had once done. He had shot a fox (in my part of the country it was usual to shoot foxes) and had brought it to my uncles’ farmhouse. I was alone and he had said, ‘Come with me while I do this’, and we had gone into a corner of the barn and there by lamplight he had skinned the fox and cut off its feet. I had thought it would be pleasure to be with my love in the lamplight, alone with the smell of the hay and the lamp reek, but it had been some time before I wanted to be alone with him again. If, I thought, I should put this corrupt matter between myself and Mrs Raffald, it would change, if it did not spoil, our friendship. It was a matter for professionals, for slaughterers and undertakers, doctors and priests, this little matter of decay and destruction. It was for others to intervene between Derek and his possible victims. But who knew? The problem was impossible. In the end I did nothing: one more cause of shame to add to a lifetime’s roll of those things which I ought to have done.

Syl came home one evening earlier than I had expected. I was tired after all the recent gadding about and had promised myself an evening of solitude by the fire. I was beginning to realize how much I now appreciated warmth and to wonder when I had begun to do so. Time had once passed slowly, each year like a drop of blood from a new, as yet unrealized, unfelt wound. Now the years flowed, clustered, congealed, and the wound was clearly mortal.

‘You’re back early,’ I said, too tired to regret the reproach implicit in these words.

Syl looked tired as well.

‘I thought you were dining in the city,’ I said, maternal feeling compelling me to some show of interest.

‘Decided against it,’ said Syl. He had brought in a flat parcel and put it down on the sofa. Since he was silent and obviously upset by something, I had to make a further effort.

‘What’s in the parcel?’ I inquired, as if I cared.

‘It’s my wedding present to the bride,’ said Syl in an offhand tone. I expected him to go up to his room since he was in that sort of mood, but he walked over to the fire and stood looking down at it.

‘Oh, what is it?’ I asked doggedly. Dog lay at my feet.

‘I’ll show you if you like,’ said Syl.