Friends have set me up, over the years, with a succession of kind, friendly, attractive women. The earlier encounters were excruciating, later ones less so. None of them anything more than pleasant. I don’t know why this is different. All I know is that I want to advance, arm out like a traffic policeman, stopping a phalanx of Margaret Dennises in their tracks. I want to know everything about Ellen, softly pelt her with questions. An importunate, impetuous vicar: I can’t imagine anyone less likely to appeal to her.

“Earth to Dad. Any chance of you getting off that ladder?”

I stammer an apology and climb down. He drags the ladder along the gully and begins to pull away rotten tiles. “How is Florence?” I ask, taking the tiles from him and setting them down.

Tom’s gaze rises away from mine into the sky, an apostle with dark brown eyes lit from within by the inner flame of love—not, in his case, for the divine. His passion is wholly earthly.

“She’s fine. Oh, she’s fantastic, Dad.”

The pair of us. My heart dips a little. He and Florence are very young, and with five hundred miles between them, how will they manage? I start handing up new tiles, each one the size of my forearm and weighing a good ten pounds.

“It’s a shame you’re so far apart.”

That makes him laugh. “Who proposed to Mum from a prison camp? After, what, two meetings?”

I grin up at him. “True enough . . . I’m glad you’re here, Tom.”

“Me too.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes. “I’m sorry for what I said last time. About the furniture being tragic.”

“No, you were right. In fact—”

“Ahoy!” William calls from below. “Ahoy up there!” Always authoritative, his voice now sounds urgent.

I take careful steps, one foot in front of the other, along the gully. I left William seated on the garden bench with his tin of tobacco and a ham sandwich made by Tom. Now he’s standing at the foot of the ladder, clasping the uprights with a staring grimace on his face.

“What is it, Mr. Kennet?”

“There’s a bloke out front!” I realize he’s trying to make himself heard while keeping his voice down. The result is a quiet screech. “Looking into all the windows!”

“What?”

“Big bloke, dressed in black! With a dog collar!”

I’m mystified, but only for a moment. Then I put my finger to my lips and gesture toward the bench. Deadpan, he winks at me and returns to his seat. I shuffle backward from the edge of the roof and kneel up.

Tom is approaching along the gully. “What’s going on?”