"Don't rush, Mother, you've got fourteen days to tell me the news," Lucy laughed.

They reached the cottage. Mother said, "Isn't this lovely?" They went in. "I think this is just lovely."

Lucy parked Mother at the kitchen table and made tea. "Tom will get your case up. He'll be here for his lunch shortly."

"The shepherd?"

"Yes."

"Does he find things for David to do, then?"

Lucy laughed. "It's the other way round. I'm sure he'll tell you all about it himself. You haven't told me why you're here."

"My dear, it's about time I saw you. I know you're not supposed to make unnecessary journeys, but once in four years isn't extravagant, is it?"

They heard the jeep outside, and a moment later David wheeled himself in. He kissed his mother-in-law and introduced Tom. Lucy said "Tom, you can earn your lunch today by bringing Mother's case up, as she carried your groceries."

David was warming his hands at the stove. "It's raw today."

"You're really taking sheep-farming seriously, then?" Mother said.

"The flock is double what it was three years ago," David told her. "My father never farmed this island seriously. I've fenced miles of the cliff top, improved the grazing, and introduced modern breeding methods. Not only do we have more sheep, but each animal gives us more meat and wool."

Mother said tentatively, "I suppose Tom does the physical work and you give the orders."

David laughed. "Equal partners, Mother."

They had hearts for lunch, and both men ate mountains of potatoes. Mother commented favourably on Jo's table manners. Afterwards David lit a cigarette and Tom stuffed his pipe.

Mother said, "What I really want to know is when you're going to give us more grandchildren." She smiled brightly. There was a long silence. "Well, I think it's wonderful, the way David copes," said Mother.

Lucy said, "Yes."

They were walking along the cliff top. The wind had dropped on the third day of Mother's visit and it was mild enough to go out. They took Jo, dressed in a fisherman's sweater and a fur coat. They had stopped at the top of a rise to watch David, Tom, and the dog herding sheep. Lucy could see in Mother's face an internal struggle between concern and discretion. She decided to save her mother the effort of asking.

"He doesn't love me," she said.

Mother looked quickly to make sure Jo was out of earshot. "I'm sure it's not that bad, dear. Different men show their love in diff-"

"Mother, we haven't been man and wife properly since we were married."

"But?…" She indicated Jo with a nod. "That was a week before the wedding."

"Oh! Oh, dear. Is it, you know, the accident?"

"Yes, but not in the way you mean. It's nothing physical. He just… won't." Lucy was crying quietly, the tears trickling down her wind-browned cheeks.

"Have you talked about it?"

"I've tried."

"Perhaps with time…"

"It's been almost four years!"

There was a pause. They began to walk on across the heather, into the weak afternoon sun. Jo chased gulls.

Mother said, "I almost left your father, once."

It was Lucy's turn to be shocked. "When?"

"It was soon after Jane was born. We weren't so well-off in those days, you know Father was still working for his father, and there was a slump. I was expecting for the third time in three years, and it seemed that a life of having babies and making ends meet stretched out in front of me with nothing to relieve the monotony. Then I discovered he was seeing an old flame of his-Brenda Simmonds. You never knew her, she went to Basingstoke. Suddenly I asked myself what I was doing it for, and I couldn't think of a sensible answer."

Lucy had dim, patchy memories of those days: her grandfather with a white moustache, her father in a more slender edition; extended family meals in the great farmhouse kitchen; a lot of laughter and sunshine and animals. Even then her parents' marriage had seemed to represent solid contentment, happy permanence. She said, "Why didn't you? Leave, I mean."

"Oh, people just didn't, in those days. There wasn't all this divorce, and a woman couldn't get a job."

"Women work at all sorts of things now."

"They did in the last war, but everything changed afterward with a bit of unemployment. I expect it will be the same this time. Men get their way, you know, generally speaking."

"And you're glad you stayed." It was not a question.

"People my age shouldn't make pronouncements about life. But my life has been a matter of making-do, and the same goes for most of the women I know. Steadfastness always looks like a sacrifice, but usually it isn't. Anyway, I'm not going to give you advice. You wouldn't take it, and if you did you'd blame your problems on me, I expect."

"Oh, Mother," Lucy smiled.

Mother said, "Shall we turn around? I think we've gone far enough for one day."

In the kitchen one evening Lucy said to David, "I'd like Mother to stay another two weeks, if she will." Mother was upstairs putting Jo to bed, telling him a story.

"Isn't a fortnight long enough for you to dissect my personality?" David said.

"Don't be silly. David."

He wheeled himself over to her chair. "Are you telling me you don't talk about me?"

"Of course we talk about you-you're my husband."

"What do you say to her?"

"Why are you so worried?" Lucy said, not without malice.

"What are you so ashamed of?"

"Damn you, I've nothing to be ashamed of. No one wants his personal life talked about by a pair of gossiping women.

"We don't gossip about you."

"What do you say?"

"Aren't you touchy!"

"Answer my question."

"I say I want to leave you, and she tries to talk me out of it."

He spun round and wheeled away. "Tell her not to bother for my sake."

She called, "Do you mean that?"

He stopped. "I don't need anybody, do you understand? I can manage alone."

"And what about me?" she said quietly. "Perhaps I need somebody."

"What for?"

"To love me."

Mother came in, and sensed the atmosphere. "He's fast asleep," she said. "Dropped off before Cinderella got to the ball. I think I'll pack a few things, not to leave it all until tomorrow." She went out again.

"Do you think it will ever change, David?" Lucy asked.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Will we ever be… the way we were, before the wedding?"

"My legs won't grow back, if that's what you mean."

"Oh, God, don't you know that doesn't bother me? I just want to be loved."

David shrugged. "That's your problem." He went out before she started to cry.

Mother did not stay the second fortnight. Lucy walked with her down to the jetty the next day. It was raining hard, and they both wore macintoshes.

They stood in silence waiting for the boat, watching the rain pit the sea with tiny craters. Mother held Jo in her arms. "Things will change, in time, you know," she said. "Four years is nothing in a marriage."

Lucy said, "I don't know, but there's not much I can do. There's Jo, and the war, and David's condition. How can I leave?" The boat arrived, and Lucy exchanged her mother for three boxes of groceries and five letters. The water was choppy. Mother sat in the boat's tiny cabin. They waved her around the headland. Lucy felt very lonely.

Jo began to cry. "I don't want Gran to go away!"

"Nor do I," said Lucy.

Godliman and Bloggs walked side by side along the pavement of a bomb-damaged London shopping street. They were a mismatched pair: the stooped, bird-like professor, with pebble-lensed spectacles and a pipe, not looking where he was going, taking short, scurrying steps; and the flat-footed youngster, blond and purposeful, in his detective's raincoat and melodramatic hat; a cartoon looking for a caption.