‘New potatoes!’ she cried, ‘and turnips! Oh, Hugh! But where did you get them? Sit down and I’ll take off your boots. They’re soaking—’

I told her part of the night’s affairs while she gave me dry clothes and set out food for me.

‘I can’t eat them,’ she said, looking at the potatoes with distaste. ‘Think of the risk you ran—it wasn’t worth it—if anything happened to you—’

‘Risk?’ I returned. ‘I don’t think there was any. I don’t think there’s a soul save ourselves left alive in this country.’

I kept some things secret even from her. The smell of death, rank and hideous, was in my nostrils as I spoke, and ate, and tried to sleep. I shuddered when I let my thoughts go back and I smelled again that foul air I breathed. She brought me dry clothes, making pretence that she believed it was cold which made my blood congeal.

4 SEPTEMBER

WE HAVE BEEN very idle these past few days. Our firewood is home, the cave is snug against winter, there is nothing for us to do save sleep all night and lie in the sun all day.

Time goes faster here than ever it did while we lived in our house. We can scarcely believe it is mid-autumn already, though winter looks down on us each morning from peaks dusted with new snow. Midday’s fervour dissolves the snow, yet the time seems the more autumnal for the brief fierce heat of the sun.

It is autumn indeed. The bloom of the heather is withered brown. Cock grouse waken us with their calling from dun hillocks, and I am sure I heard a stag roar yesterday.

‘A fortnight too early,’ I told Terry. ‘It brings winter on us with a rush.’

‘I didn’t hear it,’ she answered. ‘I’ve heard that roe-deer barking, though. We’ll be right in the middle of the stags here when they start roaring in earnest.’

‘Oh you’ll hear a chorus all right,’ I assured her. ‘Enough to frighten you on frosty nights—’