‘Where is Albion Terrace?’

‘Behind the slaughterhouse.’

Her bedraggled dignity reared up, and she said severely, ‘That is out of the question.’ But after she had left the shop, she turned about and went in search of Albion Terrace. Though it lay in the poorest quarter of the town, it had retained a kind of jettisoned gentility. Miss St John noticed that the windows of number six were cleanly curtained and that its doorknob was polished. She was telling herself that one would soon grow accustomed to the smell from the gasworks, when a girl ran past, jostling a perambulator 112and screaming. Heads popped out of windows, more people came running, children darted among them like firecrackers, and a cow charged down the street, dragging along two men who were wrenching at her horns. Miss St John hurried into an alleyway. The alley branched into further alleys; before she could feel herself in safety, she knew herself to be lost. Her tongue was so swollen with fear that she did not feel able to ask her way. She stumbled on, tossed from street to street, rebounding from blind alleys, pursued by bursts of laughter, stared at by impassive men on doorsteps, and bewildered by a growing sensation that she was not in Dunwater at all. When at last she caught sight of the Minster spire it seemed to belong to another life.

Nearly an hour behind her usual time she walked into the little room. It was so homelike, so securely familiar, that she scarcely troubled to notice if Dennis were there.

‘I thought you would never come!’

His voice was so warped by impatience, and fatigue had put her so much off her guard, that she replied, ‘Why, did you want me?’

‘Did I want you? My dear Miss St John, you know I cannot bear to miss a moment of your society. No one appreciates me as you do. There is no one else I can tell my little secrets to. Besides, you make me laugh, you keep me fresh and jolly.’

It was as though he did indeed depend on her, and now meant to punish her for keeping him waiting. But the tea-tray was still there. Her hand shook so much that she could barely lift the pot. She sat impaled between Dennis behind 113her and the headless watchfulness of the dressmaker’s dummy in its corner by the door.

She realized that for some minutes she had been hearing only the buzzing of the flies on the flypaper. She drew a long breath, and poured out another cup of tea. Instantly the wicker chair creaked.

‘I’d give a lot to know how many cups of tea I’ve seen you put away since our first merry meeting. What an introduction! Fate threw us together, as you might say. That little crumb that took the wrong turning … that’s what set the ball rolling! If I saved your life, Miss St John, you’ve certainly changed mine. It’s been a mutual … What’s that?’