‘Is it all right if I smoke?’

‘It’s fine by me. But, then again, it’s not my house,’ said Mr Kimball.

‘Florence doesn’t mind. And Mr Mayhood says it’s fine as long as I don’t do it in the draughting room.’

‘You haven’t asked before. I thought perhaps you’d given up.’

‘Nah. They help me concentrate. I reckon I don’t smoke as many as I used to, though. I’m in the draughting room so much these days.’ He went over to the dresser for the nice ceramic ashtray he sometimes used at supper. ‘See,’ he said, presenting it. ‘All above board.’ He lit up and felt better right away. ‘I can’t remember where I left things now …’

‘You were telling me about your visit to the site. An argument about the steel.’

‘Oh yeah. Well, it wasn’t quite an argument.’

‘What was it, then?’

‘I don’t know what you’d call it. A debate, maybe.’

‘A frank exchange of views.’

‘Yeah, it was more like that.’

‘And did it get resolved?’

‘Of course. It had to.’

Being with the Mayhoods at the building site last week had felt like a rehearsal for the life he wanted. Even the short ride to Sunbury had been a pleasure, with Florence driving in the seat ahead of him, the scent of hyacinth inside the car and all the fresh temptations of her skin enlivened by the morning light. A glorious picture she had been. He could’ve gazed for ever at the little threads of hair upon her neck, so fair and plumy, which had come untangled from the metal pins beneath her curls – but too much staring made him feel transparent, not to mention seedy. Somehow, he could never pine for anyone without his sister getting wise to it; she’d been chipping at him with her snide remarks of late, in earshot of the Mayhoods – ‘Wind your tongue in, mouse, or you’ll trip over it’ – and these embarrassments had bruised him slightly. That morning in the car, though, Joyce had been so quiet and disconnected. Her thigh had clattered on his knee with every bend along the road, reminding him that she was there. She’d looked hungover, pale, as though her face had been rubbed down with calamine. The light had seemed to injure her each time it passed across her brow. And when his sister’s head was sore from drink, she didn’t welcome company or interference. He’d learned this years ago, when they were kids – to leave her simmering until the poison boiled away. ‘Joy, are you all right?’ he’d whispered.

She’d laid her head down on the rim of the back seat, closed her eyes and put a finger to her lips. ‘I’ve not been sleeping much,’ she’d told him.

‘If you say so.’

‘It’s the truth.’

‘You’ve not been on the rum, then?’

‘Shut up. I’m just trying to rest my eyes.’

He’d watched the passing scenery instead. The open fields dissolved into the suburbs, red-brick homes with tarmacadam drives and charmless gatherings of shops. They’d crossed over the Thames, the low sun flashing through the railings of the bridge, until they’d turned off the main road and driven up a shallow slope, pulling through a gate within a wall of temporary fencing. The Proctor house was being built there, on a square of muddy land – when it was done, it wouldn’t so much overlook the river as stare hopefully in its direction, beyond the shoulders of the houses opposite. ‘Nice how some folk get to live,’ his sister had leaned in to say. She’d come alive all of a sudden. ‘Who d’you suppose these Proctor people are?’ He’d shrugged at her, and she’d concluded: ‘Lawyers would be my guess. Can’t be short of a few bob.’