‘Single-handed.’

  ‘I’d do it with other people, if they’d only let me.’

  ‘You’ll feel different if you have a child.’

  ‘I don’t want a child.’

  The man who appeared at the end of the path a few moments before is pacing up and down at the side of the drive: he walks several steps in one direction, his head bowed, rubbing his hands, then, with something of a quicker momentum, still rubbing, hurries back the other way.

  ‘It’s a mockery.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Without charity,’ she says, ‘a life like this means nothing at all.’

  ‘Even with it,’ I say, ‘it doesn’t add up to much.’

  ‘It adds up to something.’

  ‘Solar oblivion, I suppose,’ I tell her.

  She walks ahead; it’s as if, given this sudden incentive, she’s going to walk on to the open gates. Only, as we reach the turning to the house, I see her mother’s figure, tall, round-shouldered, standing in the porch.

  ‘There you are. They said you’d gone for a walk.’

  Yvonne, seeing her, has given a kind of jerk: her head comes up sharply; almost involuntarily, it seems, she puts out her arms.

  Her mother, her arms already out, comes down the steps.

  ‘I came up early, love. They told me you were out.’

  Red-eyed, her face comes down, her lips pouting. Their two figures, for a moment, are held together, Yvonne’s head crouched against her mother’s arm.

  ‘I didn’t know Colin would be here.’

  ‘I just dropped by.’

  ‘It’s so good of you. I’d have come sooner, you know, if you’d only asked.’

  ‘Colin’s been to see Doctor Lennox,’ Yvonne has said.

  ‘Are you coming out?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘I can go for the week-end,’ she says. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘But that’s something, love. They must be confident if they’ll give you that.’

  She takes her arm.

  ‘I’ve brought you some cakes and some chocolate, love.’

  ‘I’ve baked you a cake,’ Yvonne has said.

  ‘For me?’

  ‘I did it in the ovens here.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered, love,’ she says.

  ‘Who else would have bothered?’ Yvonne has asked.

  The glass doors, released, crash to behind.

  ‘You can come and have some of it at the week-end, then.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to that.’

  ‘You can stay at the house if you want, you know.’

  ‘We thought,’ I tell her, ‘we’d stay at the flat.’

  ‘The door’s always open,’ her mother says. ‘I keep the beds aired, in any case,’ she adds.

  ‘Then again,’ I tell her, ‘we could book in, I suppose, at some hotel.’

  ‘You don’t want to go to that expense,’ her mother says.

  ‘I’ll see you on Friday,’ I tell Yvonne.

  ‘Are you going, then?’

  We’ve reached the hall; she’s looking back, her beret pushed up from her mother’s embrace.

  ‘I have to get back.’

  ‘It was so good of you to come,’ her mother says.

  ‘I’ll say good-bye.’ She leans across.

  I kiss her cheek.

  ‘See you on Friday.’

  ‘I’ll see you, then.’

  ‘He’s so considerate,’ her mother says, taking her arm as I turn to leave.

  When I reach the porch they’ve disappeared; then, as I step outside, I see their heads moving past the windows towards the ward. Immediately below, in the garden, the man with the large head and the protruding eyes, is picking up twigs beneath the hedge.

  I walk down to the gate and don’t look back.

  ‘I like it here.’

  She leans to the curtain and pulls it back; the cathedral spire, like some dark fissure in the sky, blocks out the space above her head.

  ‘I suppose you don’t mind, in any case,’ she says.

  She looks across.

  ‘Me getting into trouble.’

  ‘Trouble and you,’ I say, ‘don’t go together.’

  ‘Neville’s coming home at the end of the week.’

  ‘He ought to have come home before,’ I tell her.

  ‘I mean: I can’t get away as easily as I could.’

  ‘You might ask him to be more reasonable,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ she says. She begins to laugh. ‘It’s so cold up here, if you’re not in bed.’

  Beside her clothes, on a chair by the bed, is the Jack Daniels she’s brought in a silver wrapper; beside the Jack Daniels stands an empty glass; beside the empty glass, her cigarettes and the square-shaped lighter she uses with her monogram on the side and a coloured crest.

  The same crest forms the clasp on her pouch-shaped bag.

  She stretches her arms above her head.

  ‘I’ll arrange it soon so I can stay a night.’

  ‘Don’t you think you’ll be cold?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘You could bring your own blanket. Or something,’ I tell her.

  ‘I suppose I could.’

  ‘Is the four-poster warm?’

  ‘You must give it a try.’

  ‘That’ll be the day.’

  ‘That will be the day, I suppose,’ she says.

  She pulls back the sheet.

  She gives a yawn; she covers her face then shakes her head.

  ‘I’d better go. I’ll be falling asleep.’

  She rolls on her side. Her legs stretched out, she feels for her shoes.

  Her figure is dainty; the breasts symmetrical, almost like a girl’s. There’s a faint colouring of the skin around her stomach, and faint, bluish blemishes on the inside of her thighs. She reminds me, for some reason, in her casualness perhaps, of the fair-haired model in the life room at the college.

  ‘I could close my eyes.’

  ‘It would look even worse.’

  ‘Don’t you mind me watching?’

  She begins to laugh. She stoops to her clothes and pulls them on.

  She dresses like an athlete at the end of a race, preoccupied, intent, her head stooped, her gestures minimal, restrained.

  When she’s fastened the dress and pulled on her shoes she gets out a comb.

  As always, forgetting, she looks for a glass.

  ‘What a primitive place this really is.’

  She looks in her bag.

  ‘I remind myself to put one in. I always forget.’

  ‘Just comb it straight.’

  ‘I need to look.’

  ‘I’ll tell you how you are,’ I say.

  She stands at the window a moment, gazing out.

  ‘If I line up on the cathedral,’ she says, ‘I can always see.’

  She stoops to the reflection, straightens, then combs her hair.

  ‘There’s that man in the yard again,’ she says.

  ‘You could give him a wave.’

  ‘He saw me come in. That’s twice in one week.’

  ‘He’ll be getting ideas.’

  ‘He had those before.’

  I kneel on the bed.

  The man is stretched out, on his stomach, doing press-ups; the back of his neck is creased, reddened. For the first time I notice the thickness of his biceps. He’s dressed in shorts and a white string vest.

  ‘Do you know who he is?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Isn’t he ever at work?’

  ‘Ask him,’ I tell her, ‘when he opens the door.’

  ‘You could give me a key.’

  ‘I’ll have one made.’

  She stoops to her reflection; she touches her hair around her cheeks. Then, shifting her head slightly from side to side, she paints her lips.

  ‘If I don’t go now I’m going to be late.’

  ‘Where are you going to, in any case?’ I say.

  ‘I’m picking up Beccie at the school,’ she says.

  I begin to laugh.

  ‘I promised I’d pick her up,’ she adds.

  ‘That’s all right by me.’ I laugh again.

  ‘I could drop in on Wilcox, too,’ she says.

  ‘And tip him the wink.’

  ‘A tutor called Freestone …’

  ‘Isn’t toeing the line.’

  The cathedral clock booms out above our heads.

  ‘I’d better be off.’

  She crosses to the bed.

  ‘At night,’ she adds, ‘I dream of this.’

  ‘No need to take it seriously,’ I tell her.

  ‘I don’t take it seriously. I just dream of it,’ she says.

  She kisses my lips.

  ‘Good-bye for now.’

  She goes to the door.

  ‘I’ll buy you a mirror next week,’ she says.

  The door is closed.

  I get out of bed.

  The tapping of her heels comes from the stairs outside.

  I cross to the window. There’s a man in the street in a trilby hat. He wears a dark raincoat, looking up briefly as he passes the door, then glancing back, a moment later, as Elizabeth herself steps out. She doesn’t look up; glancing first up the street to where she’s parked the car, she sets off, after a moment’s hesitation, in the opposite direction.

  She disappears beneath the window ledge; the street is empty. Odd lights have appeared in the valley bottom; I go back to bed, pick up the bottle, touch up the glass and, reaching for her lighter, flick up the flame and light a cigarette.

  Part Four

  1

  Hendricks crosses to the chair and retrieves his sweater. The light now has almost gone; patches of sweat have stained his shirt; the whiteness of his shorts is blemished, stained by the ash of the court itself. His face seems grey; his eyes, from across the court, are invisible in shadow.

  I say,

  ‘Do you fancy another set?’

  ‘Too dark, old man.’

  ‘You played super, Mr Freestone,’ Rebecca says.

  She’s arrived with the combat-jacketed youth, plus his dog, at the beginning of the game, standing at the net, calling the score, instructing Hendricks, if not myself – ‘Oh, super shot, Mr Freestone,’ – to such an extent that Hendricks, finally, in a rage, has lost a set.

  The youth, now, has gone some distance off, calling to the dog. He’s shown little interest in the game, digging his heels against the ash: but for Rebecca, and the prospect, perhaps, of watching Hendricks, he might have wandered off.

  ‘One set each, Mr Hendricks,’ Rebecca says.

  Hendricks nods; he tucks a silk scarf inside his sweater.

  ‘Fancy a drink, old man?’ I ask.

  ‘I’ve got to get off,’ he says. ‘I’m late already.’ He examines his watch, stooping vaguely to the evening light.

  The odd man from the hut is standing on the path outside the courts.

  ‘Which way are you going, Mr Freestone?’ Rebecca says. She’s dressed in jeans, with a silk blouse and leather jacket. The blouse, unbuttoned, reveals, virtually, the full measure of her chest.

  ‘I wasn’t going anywhere,’ I tell her.

  ‘We were going for a drink,’ she says. ‘Mathews and myself.’

  She indicates the youth who’s throwing twigs now for the dog to fetch.

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  ‘Phil,’ she says. She waves to the youth who gets hold of the dog by its collar and comes across.

  ‘Mr Freestone’s coming for a drink.’

  ‘I thought you had to get home,’ he says.

  ‘I’ve time for a drink, at least,’ she says.

  Hendricks, his tennis balls already in his string bag, has gone over to the gate.

  He’s limping slightly; one side of his leg is grazed. On the path outside he stoops to his racket, examining the strings; he tightens the screws on the metal press.

  ‘I’d better say goodnight.’

  ‘Deciding set tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d better let this heal.’ He indicates his leg.

  ‘See you at college.’

  He doesn’t answer. He fastens the string bag to the handle of his racket.

  ‘They’ll be closing these next week.’

  The old man comes over to the gate. He fastens the lock in a metal bracket.

  Hendricks is limping off beneath the whale-bone arch.

  ‘Goodnight, old man.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  He waves. As he nears his car he begins to run.

  ‘Where can we go?’ Rebecca says.

  ‘There’s a pub outside the gates,’ the youth has said.

  ‘I’ll take the car through,’ she says, and adds to me, ‘You can walk with Phil.’

  The dog starts after her as she runs ahead.

  Mathews calls it. I tuck in the collar of my shirt and start off with the youth towards the gates.

  ‘Do you play tennis much?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Apollo had an evening.’

  ‘I suppose he had.’

  ‘Last year he had a racket with a metal shaft. It was split into three, you see, like that.’ He takes my racket. ‘He left it on a bench one day and somebody soaked the neck of it in acid.’ He gives it back. ‘When he went to play the head fell off.’ He begins to laugh. ‘Here, boy! Here, boy!’ he calls as we reach the gate.

  The lights have gone on in the pub across the road.

  Hendricks’s car sweeps past, brakes as it turns to the road, then disappears quickly towards the town.

  The red shooting-brake follows it a moment later. It parks in the yard at the side of the pub.

  The building, in design, resembles a country mansion; casement windows are set in wood and plaster surrounds; a lantern burns inside a timbered porch; upturned barrels are set out as tables along one side of the cobbled yard.

  Rebecca gets out from the car and comes across.

  ‘I’ve no money on me,’ Mathews says.

  ‘I’ve some,’ she says. ‘You needn’t worry.’

  ‘We’d better sit outside.’ He indicates the dog.

  ‘Do you fancy a beer?’ she says. ‘Or something short.’

  ‘I’ll have a beer.’ He beckons to the dog.

  ‘I’ll get them,’ I tell her. I go inside.

  When I come back out Mathews is sitting with his arm around her; he takes it away as I reach the table. I set down the tray and take a seat.

  ‘Apollo, I bet, was pretty mad. Have you beaten him before?’ Rebecca says.

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘You could give me a game, if you like,’ she says. She looks to Mathews. ‘I’m pretty good.’

  ‘I bet,’ he says, and takes his glass.

  Rebecca takes hers.

  ‘Here’s to it, then,’ she says.

  There are one or two other groups sitting at the tables; the dog, released by Mathews, has wandered off across the yard.

  ‘We thought it was you from the top of the hill. It’s something to do with your arms,’ she says. ‘You were hitting the ball in a kind of dream. It’s the look you have at the school,’ she adds.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’re not really there, I suppose,’ she says.

  She looks to Mathews.

  ‘What did you do before you came up here?’ he says.

  ‘Very little, on the whole,’ I tell him.

  ‘I gather you were a fighter for a while,’ he says.

  ‘For a while,’ I tell him. ‘Then I turned to art.’

  ‘Representational, I suppose,’ he says.

  ‘Realist might be more appropriate,’ I say.

  ‘Realist!’ he says. He begins to laugh.

  Rebecca gets up; she calls the dog. Suddenly, it seems, she’s grown impatient.

  A man at an adjoining table, reading a newspaper, has looked across. The paper, from the headlines, is two days old.

  ‘Art no longer exists. Only parodies, of course,’ I tell him, ‘and self-reflection.’

  ‘It seems our time’s being wasted, then,’ he says.

  ‘That’s for you to decide, old man,’ I say.

  ‘We’d better be going, I think,’ he says.

  On the breast pocket of his jacket is a badge which says, ‘I am your friend’.

  ‘We’ll drop Mr Freestone off,’ Rebecca says. ‘Do you fancy another drink?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘Thanks for the one we had, Mr Freestone,’ Mathews says.

  We cross to the car. The man with the newspaper, a flat cap pulled down above his eyes, has glanced across.

  ‘I’ll walk back to town,’ I say.

  ‘I can easily take you back,’ she tells me.

  ‘I’d prefer to walk,’ I tell her. ‘I invariably do after playing tennis.’

  ‘Some shady assignation, I suppose,’ she says.

  ‘That’s right.’

  She glances now to the man himself.

  ‘Are you sure about the lift?’ she says.

  ‘I’d much prefer to walk than ride.’

  She gets in the car; Mathews gets in the other side.

  The dog gives a howl as the engine starts.

  As she turns the car it collides with a barrel.

  She glances out; an arm is waved.

  ‘Nothing serious,’ she says, and waves again.

  The car turns in the road outside; to a vague revving of the engine it disappears.

  The man with the newspaper has crossed the yard; having glanced down the road he taps the paper against his hand, reassures himself of the car’s direction, then, with something of a gesture, follows me.

  The door to the ground floor flat is suddenly opened. The man with the red moustache appears.

  ‘Could I have a word?’ he says. He glances past me to the door of the house itself. ‘It won’t take a minute.’ He winks. ‘If you could slip inside.’

  He’s wearing a light blue suit; he looks, for that moment, like some comedian in a thirties’ farce; the red hair, the red moustache, the slightly reddened nose to match.

  I step inside.

  His room is furnished with elaborate care; it corresponds to the old drawing-room of the family house: there’s a three-piece suite, a table that reminds me, by its age, of the one in Wilcox’s dining-room, and above the marble fireplace hangs a diamond-shaped mirror in a wrought-iron frame. A pair of sliding-doors cuts off the view to the bedroom at the back.