I picked up the rocking chair, shut the door, and went through the house and into the garden where I unlocked my shed; the door was reinforced and there had been three padlocks on it since the time a year ago when a gang of youths had broken into it and stolen some of my tools. Inside, there were several ladder-backed chairs, a corner cupboard in dark oak, a lovely little ash cabinet without a back, a carved chest with an ugly gash along its lid and scars where some of its raised designs had been, and a Georgian desk. They were waiting for my attention. I went in, without turning on the light, and ran my finger across the wooden surfaces. Even though I hadn’t been in there for days and days, there was still the wonderful smell of sawdust and wax. Curls of planed wood lay on the floor. I squatted, picked up a pale rind and fingered it for a while, wondering if I’d ever come back to work here again.

Greg and I had argued about stupid things. Whose turn it was to empty the rubbish bin. Why he didn’t rinse the basin after he’d shaved. Why I didn’t know how irritating it was when I cleaned up around him, huffing just loudly enough so that he’d hear me. When he interrupted me in the middle of a sentence. When I’d used up all the hot water. We argued about clothes that shrank in the wash, botched arrangements, overcooked pasta and burnt toast, careless words, trivial matters of mess and mismanagement. We never fell out over the big things, like God or war, deceit or jealousy. We hadn’t had long enough together for that.

“SO YOU DON’T believe me?”

Mary and I were walking on the Heath. It was cool and gray, the wind carrying a hint of rain. Our feet shuffled through drifts of damp leaves. Robin, her one-year-old, was in a carrier on her back; he was asleep and his bald, smooth head bobbed and lolled on her neck as we walked. His pouchy body swung with each step Mary took.

“I didn’t say that. Not exactly. I said . . .”

“You said, ‘Men are such bastards.’”

“Yes.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that men are such bastards. Look, Ellie, Greg was lovely.”

“But?”

“But he wasn’t a saint. Most men stray if they get the chance.”

“Stray?” I said. I was beginning to feel angry and rattled. “Like a sheep that’s got out of its field?”

“It’s all about opportunity and temptation. This Milena probably made the first move.”

“This Milena didn’t have anything to do with him. Or him with her.”

Suddenly Mary stopped. Her cheeks were blotchy in the cold. Over her shoulder Robin’s eyes opened blearily, then closed again. A thread of saliva worked its way down his chin.