‘A proper job, that, Joy,’ he said. ‘Much better than my effort.’

His sister kept on sweeping the thick sable brush across the paper, soaking it. ‘You reckon?’

‘Yeah. It’s neater than my first go, anyway.’

‘Thanks, mouse. I suppose I have my uses.’

Suddenly, there was a peal of laughter from behind him. He hadn’t noticed Mr Mayhood in the wing chair by the fireplace – the telephone was in his fist, its cable ranging from the socket underneath his desk like a festoon. ‘I swear, I would’ve given anything to be there when they told him! Ha, poor Miles! Can’t win them all!’ It didn’t sound much like a work call.

‘Well,’ he told his sister, ‘I don’t want to interrupt your shining hour, but Kimball’s ready for you now.’

‘He’ll keep.’

‘Yeah, except you know how he’ll report it. Joyce was thirteen minutes and nine seconds late today for her appointment.’

‘Fine. I’m coming.’ She wiped her brush down on the rag and set it on the table. Getting up, she reached back to undo her apron strings. ‘Why in God’s name did I do this up so tight?’

‘Here, Joy, let me help you.’ Florence took a while to pick apart the cord. ‘You’re right – you’ve really done a number on this thing.’

His sister stood there, gazing down at him. ‘What sort of mood is Kimball in today – how chatty is he?’

‘More than usual, I’d say.’

‘Oh, give me strength.’ At last, she slipped out of her apron, handing it to Florence. ‘I’m running out of things to tell him. He knows everything about me now. He’s my imaginary friend I can’t get rid of.’ She traipsed off. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘Enjoy yourself.’

‘I will, son. Thanks.’

‘Give over.’

He watched her ambling away, past Mr Mayhood by the fire, still chuntering into the phone, and past the corner of the noticeboard where copies of his elevations for the root cellar had been pinned, beneath the label WORK IN PROGRESS. There was such a heaviness about the way she walked, heels clouting the parquet. And what faulty patch inside her brain had made it so she couldn’t close a door behind her properly? It sprang open on its latch as she went down the hall, allowing in the draught.

Florence bundled up the apron, laid it on the table. She twisted off the lamp and the entire world seemed dimmer. When she sniffed the air in sharply, blinking, he wondered if he’d been too heavy-handed with the hair cream earlier.

‘You’d better hope nobody hears you talk that way about your supervising officer,’ she said.

‘It’s just a bit of fun. He’s all right, Mr Kimball. Sometimes.’

‘Well, you can call him fit to burn, for all I care – but do it privately. For everybody’s sake.’

‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’

She nodded at the doorway. ‘Go and shut that, would you? I can feel the cold around my feet already.’

‘Is it all right if I go and make a pot of coffee?’