He set off down the trod and within a few minutes found himself rejoining the relatively broad track of Stanebank.

Left would take him back to Foulgate, right must lead downhill past the Hall.

That was his quickest and easiest way, though he found himself unhappy at the prospect of meeting any of the Hall’s inmates in his present befouled condition. It wasn’t just his shoes that were ruined. The mud had managed to reach his knees, though he had no memory of ever sinking so deep.

He set off down the grassy track. Walking downhill on a firm surface was a pleasure after the Moss. He felt as strong as he’d been before his accident. Soon the Hall came in sight. He paused where a natural terrace on the fellside gave a fine oversight. The ground dropped steeply then began to level off toward the kitchen end of the house. A flat area scooped out of the slope and leveled with gravel caught his eye. It looked like a niche prepared to receive some piece of garden statuary. Maybe Dunstan had picked up a marble Venus on his last trip to Rome! He worked out that one of the first-floor windows he could see was probably the old man’s bedroom. Perhaps even now he and the statuesque but very non-marmoreal Pepi were enjoying themselves up there. With an example like that, no need for a late starter like himself to worry. He still had half a century to learn the game!

The thought stayed with him as he strode past the Hall and as he approached that other reminder of the possibilities of age, the Forge, it returned to make him smile again.

“Dear God! It doesn’t take much to make you monks happy,” said a mocking voice. “Why didn’t you roll in the mud and really enjoy yourself!”

Thor Winander was standing in his driveway.

“Good morning, Mr. Winander,” said Mig.

“And good morning to you. What the hell have you been up to?”

“I went for a walk and found the ground wasn’t as hard as I’m used to.”

“Edie Appledore isn’t going to thank you for tracking that clart into her house, and you must be in her black books already for messing up her kitchen. Come in and clean up. No, I insist. We didn’t really get a chance to talk about last night, did we?”

Not too reluctantly, Mig let himself be drawn into the house. Winander took him upstairs and opened a door which led into a bedroom.

“Bathroom in there,” he said, pointing to another door. “I’ll leave some clean things on the bed for you. I’ll be downstairs with a hot drink when you’re ready.”

Five minutes later, Mig descended the stairs wearing trainers and chinos, both a touch too large but not unmanageably so.

“In here,” called Winander.

He tracked the voice into a basic but well-ordered kitchen.

“Sit yourself down,” the big man commanded. “Won’t take you into the parlor. Had the little Aussie in there yesterday and she was a bit satirical about the mess. Doesn’t mince her words, does she? So, how do you like your coffee? With or without?”

“Just a very little milk, thank you.”

“I wasn’t talking about milk,” said Winander, holding up a bottle of rum. “This stuff will put the color back in your cheeks. It did wonders for the British Navy’s cheeks, so they say – above and below.”

He poured a generous dollop into a mug, topped it with coffee and passed it over.

“There we go. Salud!”

“Cheers,” said Mig.

“So,” said Winander, back into a chair. “And how are you after last night’s adventures? And the marvelous midget, how’s she bearing up?”

“Miss Flood, you mean? She’s gone. Drove off first thing.”

“With never a goodbye? After all I did for her. There’s Aussie manners for you.”

“What exactly did you do for her, Mr. Winander?” said Mig.

“Call me Thor. Well, now I come to think of it, not a lot. But I’m sorry to have missed her. Sort of grew on you, didn’t she? Which was just as well as she seems to have stopped growing on herself!”

Mig surprised in himself a pang of resentment which came close to being jealousy. Changing the subject, he said, “I didn’t thank you properly for your prompt action last night. I gather it was you who worked things out so quickly.”

“Not difficult. Pulley ropes broken, hooks under the table, voices from the ground. Scratch the patina of artistic sophistication and you will find us Winanders are still basically jobbing craftsmen.”

“Us Winanders? Are there many of you?”

Thor frowned and said, “No. In fact there’s only me. I am the end, there is no more, there’s an apple up my arse and you can have the core, as the poet said.”

Under the coarse flippancy Mig detected that this was a source of genuine pain.

“You never married?” he said.

“No. When I was younger I never saw the need for it; later I was past my sell-by date. But all things good and bad come to an end, eh? Must be something in the scriptures to cover that, Father. Sorry. Miguel.”

“Mig,” said Mig. “On the contrary, I think the scriptures are more about infinity than the finite. What is good is forever.”

“That’s what you think, is it? Well, no one minds the smell of their own crap. Sorry, I didn’t ask you in to be offensive. It’s just that old Illthwaite is dying on its feet. The school’s gone, the post office is gone, even the bloody Herdwicks look like going with hill-farmers feeling the pinch and selling up or trying to make a living out of cream teas and tourists. No more Winanders after me, no more Appledores after Edie, not much chance of there being any more Woollasses. Even the bloody Gowders have ground to a halt unless they’ve got a couple of mad wives locked in their attic, which wouldn’t surprise me as you’d have to be mad to marry a Gowder.”

“They seem a not very prepossessing family,” said Mig with careful neutrality.

“You’ve noticed? Brutes and bandits, that’s what they’ve always been. Seems only fitting that they should end up putting their neighbors under the ground, which is more or less what they’ve been doing for the past five centuries! But you’ve probably had it with Illthwaite. In fact, I’m surprised you’re still here. Someone should have warned you how sensitive the Woollasses are about their precious Father Simeon. Even Frek.”

“Frek did not strike me as being much concerned about such matters,” said Mig.

“Not on the surface, maybe. But you’ll soon see red Woollass blood coming through if you scratch Frek’s fair white skin. Not that there’s much chance of you doing that.”

Mig found himself flushing, partly with embarrassment, partly with annoyance.

Was it so obvious that he’d been stricken by the woman?

And was it common knowledge already that she’d turned him down?

Winander was looking at him curiously.

“Forgive me for asking, old chum, but you get on well with the fair Frek, do you?”

“I think so,” Mig replied, trying not to sound too brusque.

He downed the rest of his coffee. The rum gave it a darkly decadent flavor.

“Now I must get back,” he said. “Thank you very much for your kindness.”

“But you haven’t bought anything! Come to think of it, neither did young Sam. I can’t have two tourists in succession getting out of here with their wallets as full as when they arrived. Let me show you my workshop.”

Reluctantly Mig let himself be led into a high airy room full of light from three huge plate-glass windows.

“Have a look around,” said Winander. “If you see anything you fancy, just shout.”

Mig wandered round the workshop, counting the minutes till the demands of politeness would have been satisfied and he could go.

“This might interest you,” said Winander. “A kind of companion piece to the angel.”

He drew a piece of sacking away from the reclining nude.

Mig recognized the face instantly, and as he took in the blatant sexuality of the splayed legs, he felt a knot of anger form in his chest at what seemed a deliberate and malicious provocation on Winander’s part.