The front room of the cottage was entirely devoted to Wesley Baines’ work. Tools, pots of paint, panes of glass and plumbing spare parts were ranged on shelves across one side of the room. There were two benches, a large one with a lathe and a smaller at which Wesley sat, repairing a shoe. He had a scooped-out, thin, bony face which made Miss Mayfield think of pictures she had seen of Abraham Lincoln His thick fair hair was a good deal lighter than his weathered skin, his eyes a mild periwinkle blue.

‘This is Sydney’s teacher, Miss Mayfield.’

He stood up, so tall that his head only just cleared the low ceiling, very thin, awkwardly put together. He reached out a huge horny hand and said heartily:

‘Glad to see you, Miss. Heard a lot about you, we hev, from Syd.’

‘Have you looked at him?’

‘No more than two minutes ago. Seemed to be dozing nicely.’

‘Give Miss Mayfield a chair,’ Mrs Baines said. ‘Excuse me, I must just see . . .’

She opened a door to the left of the fireplace, which faced the door, and revealed a stairway, steep and narrow but built of solid oak, uncovered and highly polished. Wesley Baines opened the door on the right, and Miss Mayfield caught a glimpse of a living room which, like the garden, differed from the village pattern. The gate-legged table, the Welsh dresser were reproductions – perhaps shoddy – of the real thing, but they were pleasing to the eye; so was the unutilitarian chintz which covered the chairs and curtained the window, a white ground, scattered with bright flowers. Some white-painted shelves held a collection of books; the floor was bare except for two bright rugs.

Wesley Baines brought in one of the chintz-covered chairs, and Miss Mayfield had just sat down when Mrs Baines came blundering down the stairs. Her nose and a band all about her mouth were chalky white.

‘Dozing nicely,’ she said in a voice of intense bitterness . . . ‘The child’s in coma! Dr Macdonald . . . My purse . . .’ She snatched it up and rushed for the door. Wesley Baines reached out a long arm.

‘Em, love. You said you’d ring him on your way to the school. Didn’t you?’

‘Of course I did. He said he’d be here at five, but . . .’

‘Then he’s on his way now. Ringing him again won’t do no good.’

‘Oh, he’s like you, thinks I’m fussy, said five just to put me off. I’ll give him five . . .’

She pulled herself free and went through the door and along the garden path, running with the clumsy speed of some creature out of its own element.

Her husband stared after her.

‘He just looked sorta sleepy and peaceful to me,’ he said in a puzzled voice. ‘Whass she mean “in coma”, d’you know?’