He couldn’t speak. Fear held him as firmly as any nightmare. She said, ‘Tell Mrs Baines, Master Philip. You love your Mrs Baines, don’t you?’ That was too much; he couldn’t speak, but he could move his mouth in terrified denial, wince away from her dusty image.

She whispered, coming closer to him. ‘Such deceit. I’ll tell your father. I’ll settle with you myself when I’ve found them. You’ll smart; I’ll see you smart.’ Then immediately she was still, listening. A board had creaked on the floor below, and a moment later, while she stooped listening above his bed, there came the whispers of two people who were happy and sleepy together after a long day. The night-light stood beside the mirror and Mrs Baines could see bitterly there her own reflection, misery and cruelty wavering in the glass, age and dust and nothing to hope for. She sobbed without tears, a dry, breathless sound; but her cruelty was a kind of pride which kept her going; it was her best quality, she would have been merely pitiable without it. She went out of the door on tiptoe, feeling her way across the landing, going so softly down the stairs that no one behind a shut door could hear her. Then there was complete silence again; Philip could move; he raised his knees; he sat up in bed; he wanted to die. It wasn’t fair, the walls were down again between his world and theirs; but this time it was something worse than merriment that the grown people made him share; a passion moved in the house he recognized but could not understand.

It wasn’t fair, but he owed Baines everything: the Zoo, the ginger pop, the bus ride home. Even the supper called on his loyalty. But he was frightened; he was touching something he touched in dreams: the bleeding head, the wolves, the knock, knock, knock. Life fell on him with savagery: you couldn’t blame him if he never faced it again in sixty years. He got out of bed, carefully from habit put on his bedroom slippers, and tiptoed to the door: it wasn’t quite dark on the landing below because the curtains had been taken down for the cleaners and the light from the street came in through the tall windows. Mrs Baines had her hand on the glass door-knob; she was carefully turning it; he screamed, ‘Baines, Baines.’

Mrs Baines turned and saw him cowering in his pyjamas by the banisters; he was helpless, more helpless even than Baines, and cruelty grew at the sight of him and drove her up the stairs. The nightmare was on him again and he couldn’t move; he hadn’t any more courage left for ever; he’d spent it all, had been allowed no time to let it grow, no years of gradual hardening; he couldn’t even scream.