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photo sat on the top of one box, smiling up at him as he took it to the car. One of the nurses carried the other boxes out for him, but at home, Helen wanted the whole lot put up in the attic office straight away. He was pretty out of breath when he’d done that. He was not as fit as he might have been. Helen had on more than one occasion suggested he go to the Well Man clinic, but he never seemed to get round to it.
    Helen had taken a few days off to coincide with Max’s retirement, but that day she was meeting a friend. All the same, as expected, she was desperate to know what he was up to.
    â€˜It’s just that, well, I thought the work you were doing in the evening would stop once you finished at Porteblanche! What is that great fat folder, anyway?’ Helen pulled the bedroom curtains back rather more sharply than usual when she came in from the shower. ‘And I want to know what was in that envelope you’ve hidden somewhere!’
    â€˜Oh, I
will
tell you darling,’ he replied, at once anxious and trying to appease.
    â€˜And one more thing: I’m not letting anything get in the way of a holiday somewhere nice and warm. After all, psychiatrists retire a decade earlier than a lot of people, somy man of leisure should make the most of it.’ Helen put her hands on his shoulders, smiled and kissed him.
    â€˜We’ll have to see what we can do then,’ he replied, looking into her eyes.
    Helen went on getting ready. She had been working at the Squaremile Centre for the disabled for ten years, mostly as Manager of Sycamore House; now she wanted to go part-time so that they could be together more, with Max retired and both their girls at university. It was quiet each time Grace and Anna went away and it took some getting used to. Helen thought Max had earned a proper break too; at the same time, she feared that the fat folder might represent competition against a holiday, and was determined to find out what it was.
    Max refused to be drawn; he was not about to embark on a lengthy explanation when Helen was going out.
    â€˜When you get back.’
    â€˜Owa. Can’t you give me something to go on? Only if you’re going to spend more time on that than on me, I think it’s only fair you tell me about it.’ She sat on the bed next to him, wrapped in her white robe, pretending to sulk. He took her hand and thought for a moment. She was looking at a bruise on her knee, while her freshly washed, neat black hair was slowly cascading over her face.
    â€˜Come back to bed.’
    â€˜I can’t. I’m meeting Sally, remember?’
    He watched Helen as she finished dressing. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror, turning and smoothing her clothes over her slim figure. He felt proud. He lay back on the bed, wanting to put off showering, wanting Helen. But he also knew he had to pick the right moment to ask for her help – and talk about Vee.
    The next morning Helen seemed to be in a bad mood. She said she didn’t want him to come with her to Howcester to get the groceries, thank you. The coating of snow was practically gone. She could manage, she said. So off she went, muttering and turning every small movement into a majorevent. Meanwhile, he sat in the living room, flicking through the holiday brochures Helen had picked up the day before, egged on, no doubt, by her friend Sally. He wondered why she was so huffy. Then the phone rang. It was Jim. Max remembered having scribbled his home number on the card he’d given him at the funeral. The young man had been to see his sister’s grave, and wanted a quick chat.
    â€˜I’ve been meaning to ask you, Jim – where are your sister’s ashes buried?’
    â€˜In St. Peter’s, Howcester, with her father. Oh, and the inquest is on March 4 th – but no doubt you’ll get a letter.’
    â€˜Oh yes, thanks. By the way, Jim, I’ve decided to read the book. And I’m