She sat at the desk in the window. The light was scarcely good enough to write, that hour of dusk when a startling blue flame seems anxious to consume the remnants of day before succumbing to the extinguishing flood of night. A beautiful wistful time, too soon to draw curtains and build a different sort of contentment in a closed room by lighting a lamp, putting a match to the fire, unstopping the decanter, resigning oneself to a lighted kitchen to brew up something with a good smell to be a welcome to the footsteps which might or might not louden on the path. A kiss reeking of sherry would follow, the butt of the fag would be crushed out in the saucer with the mouldering half-lemon on the kitchen window-sill, and she would call brightly ‘Sit up. I’m ready now’. And they would eat speechlessly as usual, some nameless play burbling on the radio. Then a sweet, while she toyed with the flowers on the dining-table, improving the position of a primrose which tended to droop its face, or picked at the heart of a rose, feeling the pollen on her fingers which had always been open to such minute sensualities.

But none of these routines tonight, plenty of time to fiddle with a pen, improve the wayward letters she had already written, blackening the flourish of the capital D of Dear, add a more definite dot to the comma, lengthen its tail, turn the postcard over again and wonder what sort of riposte one could provide to ‘having a wonderful time’. The zig-zaq lines like black and white lightning which danced implacably about four inches in mid-air from her left eye were by now a familiar accompaniment to her desultory thoughts and she disregarded them with patience as she chewed the pen and tried out phrases in which to frame the news she was sure it would be easier to write than speak. But at that moment the telephone rang, a mincing nasal tone announced a locality to the far north, some noises like distant mosquitoes set the stage, and then the voice broke through, masculine, forcedly breezy: That you darling? How goes it? Oh fine she said, how are you getting on? Enjoying yourself? Oh splendid. Fit as a fiddle, best holiday I’ve had for years I think. Marvellous these outback pubs, great fellows you meet, you know. Wouldn’t read about them. I’ve got some priceless stories to tell you. Actually, Jack and I have been talking about taking the coast road down, by easy stages you know. The car’s running like a bird. Will it make any difference if we take a couple more days over it? We thought we’d call on old Terry at Coolabar, you know that chap who came as a reinforcement to the regiment just before we disbanded. Jack says he’s farming up here. I’d like to have a crack with him, sand in your eye, you know, the old times. You still there dear? Yes she said. That’s all right. I’m O.K. Thought I’d go to a film tonight. There’s a new Bergman at the Berkeley. I’ll ring Mother or try and get Pam perhaps. The pips interrupted her. Well I must finish now he bawled jovially. Oh wait on, how did your eye test go? Oh she said, all right. He was a bit non-committal. Said perhaps I’d better see someone else. Oh no, I’m not worrying. Migraine probably. Goodnight dear. See you Thursday. Bye.