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the
two of them, to Woods. Peter would like Woods,
with its bistro atmosphere and delicious food –
assuming, of course, that she could book a table . . .
    Clio applied the brakes sharply as a pheasant
careered into the road, racing dementedly in front
of the car's wheels before launching itself into a
wild steep flight upwards into the beech hedge.
    'Crazy bird,' she muttered, startled out of her
preoccupations. 'You were nearly lunch.'
    Letting in the clutch, speeding off again, she
tried to visualize the contents of Hester's freezer,
wondering if there might be something good for
tomorrow's lunch; Peter loved his food. Perhaps,
just to be on the safe side, she'd stop off in
Dulverton and go into Woods to ask Will, the bar
manager, about booking a table. Then she could
see what the delicatessen could provide: or perhaps
she might buy a rack of lamb from the butcher? She
drove over Barle Bridge, along the High Street,
veered left into Fore Street and parked in an empty
space outside the library.
    * * *
    When Clio arrived home she found Hester seated at
the table in the breakfast-room with several large
photograph albums in front of her. Clio dropped
her parcels at the other side of the table and went
to peer curiously over Hester's shoulder. The small
black-and-white snapshots had faded writing beneath
them and Clio bent closer to read the words.
    'When you telephoned to tell me about Jonah, I
remembered that these were in the cupboard in the
book-room,' Hester told her. 'I hadn't looked at
them for years. It's odd to see them again after
all this time. How poignant old photographs are,
aren't they? I can hardly believe that I was once
the person I see here; I've been looking at me,
wondering who I was and how I felt. It's the same in
reverse, of course. When we are young we know that
one day we will be old but it seems quite unreal.
The old woman you see ahead of you, way down the
road, is a stranger who could never be connected
with how you feel now, at this moment: invincible,
immortal.'
    'That's true,' admitted Clio, thinking it over. 'I
know that one day I shall be old but at the same
time I feel that old age will be happening to a
different Clio. It's not really anything to do with the
me who is here now, today.' And suddenly she
thought of Peter, and of making love with him, and
knew that she needed him quite terribly, here and
now, as a warm, vital talisman to ward off that cold,
unimaginable future.
    'Blaise was the keenest photographer of the
family, and after he went away to the war Patricia
took on his mantle.' Hester's calm voice acted as a
remedy against Clio's sense of panic, rather like
a cool hand on a hot brow. 'This one might interest
you.'
    She turned over the stiff grey pages and pointed
to an outdoor photograph of three young men
standing together rather self-consciously but
smiling good-naturedly at the camera. Their hands
were stuck casually in the pockets of their flannel
trousers and two of them wore Fair Isle pullovers in
that oddly shrunken style that seemed so much part
of the pre-war age.
    '"Edward, Blaise and Michael."' Clio read the
caption aloud. '"Summer 1938 at Bridge House."
Who's Michael? He looks faintly familiar.'
    'He's Jonah's grandfather,' answered Hester,
smiling to herself. 'Alike, aren't they?'
    'Good grief !' Clio bent even closer, scanning the
face more closely. 'So you actually knew him? Really
knew him?'
    'He was at Cambridge with Edward and Blaise,
though Blaise was older. They were all great
friends. Michael married first, though we never met
his wife. By then the war had started and he didn't
come here again until he brought Lucy down in
1944. By then, Edward was married too.'
    'And Blaise?' Remembering Jonah's theory
Clio watched Hester's face. 'He didn't want to get
married?'
    Hester seemed to withdraw: she didn't move but
her expression fell into aloof, almost severe lines.
    'No, Blaise didn't want to marry. At least, not
in the conventional way. He fell in love very