“Well,” says Tom, when we arrive back at Corey’s Farm. “I think I’ll make some bread. What are you up to, Dad?”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“I hope it puts you in a better mood.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my mood.”

“If you say so.”

Tom can be extremely irritating sometimes.

—

I stride along the tops of the fields thinking constantly of our walk together, of her arm in mine. Her nearness. Six entire days! She’ll have seen Althea, for certain. She’ll have learned that I’m still here at the farmhouse. There’s only one possible explanation.

—

“She’s met someone else in Singapore,” I burst out as I enter the kitchen.

A loaf of bread is cooling on a wire rack. Tom turns from a pot on the stove, mouth open. “What are you talking about?”

“Ellen’s met someone else while she was away. What other explanation can there be? She’s been home for six days. Six days, Tom. She knows where I am, so it’s obvious she doesn’t want to see me, and that’s why. I’m too late. I missed my chance. Please stop laughing, it’s very unkind.”

“Go and see her,” he says, when he’s got the breath.

“I can’t just go and see her.”

“For heaven’s sake.” He puts his hands to his head. “Go now! And take her something nice!”

“I haven’t got anything nice!” I bellow.

“Well, think of something!”

I cast wildly around the room. The loaf of bread is beautifully browned and giving off the most heavenly smell. I seize it in my hands and run out of the house, heedless of my son’s cries of outrage.

—

No reply when I knock. I can hardly hear the knocker over the pounding in my ears. Twice, three times. Absurdly dashed, I take a few steps back down the path. My hand is on the gate when I hear the muffled rapping of knuckles on glass. As I turn around, an upper window opens and a slight, golden-looking person puts her head out, yawning, eyes half shut.

“You’re very persistent,” she says.

“I woke you up,” I say, unnecessarily. “I’m very sorry.” I hold out the bread. “I wanted you to have this while it was still fresh.”

She considers it. “It looks homemade. Not by you, surely?”

“No, by Tom . . .”

She looks at me silently, as if she knows me for the hardened bread thief I am. A man so ruthless he will rob his own son of a wholemeal loaf. Then the window shuts again.

Nothing can calm the storm of agitation inside me.

—