This sounded ominously formal, and made the dinner feel that way. My father strove to start a conversation aimed at nobody in particular, but it soon ran out of breath. Even prompting my aunt to talk about her latest work didn’t find much life, since she wanted her paintings to speak for themselves. Rather than meet anybody’s eyes I watched skeins of rain writhe and merge and unravel on the windows. The downpour was still tousling the forest when dinner ended. I was relieved that it was time to clear away and start the washing-up. “Shall I join you, Patrick?” Abel said.

My mother hastened after him into the kitchen. “He’s fine by himself, thank you.”

“Then I don’t think I can be any further use just now. I expect you’ll have family matters to discuss.”

My aunt had caught up with my mother. “There won’t be anything Abel can’t hear, will there, Astrid?”

“I wouldn’t like to say.”

“I’m sure I’ll hear it in due course.” Abel gave the women a look too brief to read and moved to the back door. “I’ll bid you all a good night, then,” he said, turning the key in the lock. “Remember, Patrick, night is good.”

As Abel opened the door, admitting an extensive hiss of rain on leaves, my father wandered into the kitchen. “You’re leaving us already,” he said, rather less than half a question.

“You can’t go out like that,” my aunt protested.

She might have meant the weather or the situation, but Abel seemed unbothered by either. “I’ve experienced far worse in my time.”

“I haven’t even got an umbrella you can borrow. Have you, Jonathan?”

“I fear we didn’t come prepared.”

“That’s an understatement,” my mother said.

As my aunt’s lips emitted a sharp prefatory sound, Abel stepped into the rain. “I’ll see you before you know it,” he said, presumably just to her, and made for the gate in the fence. Rain and the light from the kitchen surrounded him with a luminous aura all the way along the path. He opened the gate, revealing restless darkness striped with hints of trees, and at once he and the glimpse were gone. My aunt dashed to bolt the gate and sprinted back to the kitchen, where she shook her head like a sodden animal, a gesture expressing violent emotion as well. “I hope you’re satisfied, Astrid,” she said.

“To tell you the truth, I’m nowhere near. Would you like to read upstairs for a while, Patrick?”

“I’m helping Aunt Thelma.”

“We don’t need any more helpers. Your father and I will wash up. You go and read whatever you’re reading.”