“Let me take it, then. I’m due to visit them. If she doesn’t want it, I’ll bring it back to you.”

“That would be most kind. My left hip is currently . . . what are people saying at the moment? Working to rule. Oh—well done with Meg Sutton on Sunday, by the way. Are you sure you’ve never done any shearing?”

“No, but her father has,” I tell Lady Brock. “He told me to get a good purchase on her.”

—

I haven’t looked at the scarf since I put it away. It’s disturbing, and I’m very keen, at this busy time, not to feel disturbed. Even so, it has insinuated itself into my thoughts, at odd moments of idleness or before sleep. I have been wondering where it came from, what circumstances could have infused it with this odd power. I didn’t lie to Lady Brock: I am due to visit Redwood House. But not until next week, when I will conduct Holy Communion for those unable to leave the home.

All the same, it might be polite to pass by beforehand. Let the staff put a face to the name before my official visit. And this morning seems as good a time as any.

It is disgraceful, how quickly I persuade myself of this.

In the kitchen Bailey has overturned his box, pulled out his bedding, and availed himself of the newspaper. I replace the paper and search for my bicycle clips. For a wild moment I forget where I’ve put the scarf. Then I remember the drawer in the kitchen table. I slide the scarf into a paper bag and set off for Redwood House.

On the way I post my letter to Tom. Among other things, including my measurements for the sweater, the letter contains a request. I’ve asked him to look through the photo albums, see if he can find any pictures of his mother wearing a scarf. I wrote, I know it sounds rather odd, but, and then came to a halt, unable to think what to write next. So I crossed out the but and left it at that. The sentence still makes sense. And it certainly does sound rather odd.

—

The nursing home was a military hospital during both World Wars when, no doubt, the staff struggled as they do now with the heavy oak doors and the windows made of leaded lights that creak open only with a judicious blow of the fist. “It’s all too bloomin’ well-made to get rid of,” says an orderly as he takes me to meet the director. “And as for the water . . .”

“What water?”

“River’s bank high, Reverend. Haven’t you seen it?”

“No.” I had no idea, preoccupied as I’ve been.

“If this keeps up we’ll be awash. Mrs. Shaw’s sending us all out to do the sandbags after lunch.”