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nice houses in Mayfair did not generally duck behind hedges to suckle infants. Like Hibernian peasants, no doubt. She thought fondly of the beach hut in Cornwall. By the time she found a suitable covert in the lee of a hedge, Teddy was bawling his head off, little pugilistic fists clenched against the injustice of the world. Just as he settled at the breast she happened to glance up and caught sight of George Glover coming out of the trees at the far end of the field. Spotting her, he stopped, staring at her like a startled deer. For a second he didn’t move but then he doffed his cap and said, ‘Still hot, ma’am.’
    ‘It certainly is,’ Sylvie said briskly and then watched as George Glover hastened towards the five-bar gate that broke the hedgerow in the middle of the field and leapt over it as easily as a big hunter over a hurdle.
    From a safe distance they watched the enormous harvester noisily eating the wheat. ‘Hypnotic, isn’t it?’ Bridget said. She had recently learned the word. Sylvie took out her pretty little gold fob watch, an article much coveted by Pamela, and said, ‘Heavens above, look at the time,’ although none of them did. ‘We must be getting back.’
    Just as they were leaving, George Glover shouted, ‘Heyathere!’ and cantered towards them across the field. He was carrying something cuddled in his cap. Two baby rabbits. ‘Oh,’ Pamela said, tearful with excitement.
    ‘Conies,’ George Glover said. ‘All huddled up in the middle of the field. Their mother gone. Take them, why don’t you? One each.’
    On the way home, Pamela carried both baby rabbits in her pinafore, holding it out proudly in front of her like Bridget with a tea-tray.
    ‘Look at you,’ Hugh said when they walked wearily through the garden gate. ‘Golden and kissed by the sun. You look like real countrywomen.’
    ‘More red than gold, I’m afraid,’ Sylvie said ruefully.
    The gardener was at work. He was called Old Tom (‘Like a cat,’ Sylvie said. ‘Do you think he was once called Young Tom?’). He worked six days a week, sharing his time between them and another house nearby. These neighbours, the Coles, addressed him as ‘Mr Ridgely’. He gave no indication which he preferred. The Coles lived in a very similar house to the Todds’ and Mr Cole, like Hugh, was a banker. ‘Jewish,’ Sylvie said in the same voice she would use for ‘Catholic’ – intrigued yet unsettled by such exoticism.
    ‘I don’t think they practise,’ Hugh said. Practise what, Ursula wondered? Pamela had to practise her piano scales every evening before tea, a plinking and plonking that wasn’t very pleasant to listen to.
    Mr Cole had been born with a quite different name, according to their eldest son, Simon, something far too complicated for English tongues. The middle son, Daniel, was friends with Maurice, for although the grown-ups weren’t friends the children were familiar with each other. Simon, ‘a swot’ (Maurice said), helped Maurice every Monday evening with his maths. Sylvie was unsure how to reward him for this disagreeable task, perplexed seemingly by his Jewishness. ‘Perhaps I might give him something that would offend them?’ she speculated. ‘If I give money they might think I’m referring to their well-known reputation for miserliness. If I give sweets they might not fit their dietary strictures.’
    ‘They don’t practise,’ Hugh repeated. ‘They’re not observant .’
    ‘Benjamin’s very observant,’ Pamela said. ‘He found a blackbird’s nest yesterday.’ She glared at Maurice when she said this. He had come upon them marvelling at the beautiful eggs, blue and freckled brown, and had grabbed them and cracked them open on a stone. He thought it was a great joke. Pamela threw a small (well, smallish) rock at him that hit him on the head. ‘There,’ she said. ‘How does it feel to have your shell broken open?’ Now he had a nasty cut and a bruise on his temple. ‘Fell,’ he said