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lie in the dark straining to hear a noise. One night she did hear something. It was a low, human voice which she could not identify. She tiptoed to her bedroom door and opened it a fraction.
    Now she recognised the voice: it was the Major’s, breathy, low, urgent, barely above a whisper. He was saying: ‘Come here, Pigby! Come here, sir! Come here, I say!’
    There was a silence, then again, even more urgently this time: ‘Pigby! Come here, I say!’
    After a long silence Jane thought she heard a snuffling, grunting sound somewhere in the house, like the noise made by a wild animal. Courage deserted her. She shut and locked her bedroom door, and scrambled back into bed. There she lay for the rest of the night frozen, guilty, wide awake, waiting for the recurrence of a noise which never came.
    At breakfast the following morning Jane mentioned casually that she had thought she had heard an animal in the house during the night. The Major, intent on his second piece of toast, barely looked up.
    ‘Not a dog or a cat, I hope.’ he said.
    Jane was surprised by his reaction. She said she didn’t think it was.
    ‘Arthur and I don’t care for dogs and cats,’ said Daphne.
    ‘Not proper animals,’ said the Major. ‘Not like lions and jackals, leopards and hyenas. You can respect them . You shoot ’em but you respect ’em. Know what I mean? I’ve bagged my fair share of big game in my time. Pigby and I used to go out into the Masai Mara and do it. Once got a brace of bull elephants with two successive rifle shots. Gave one of the heads to Pigby as a memento.’
    The mention of Pigby made Jane scrutinise the Major closely. He did not look mad; in fact he looked extraordinarily healthy. Recalling his frail appearance when she first met him, she could not help congratulating herself on the beneficial effects of her hospitality. He looked ten years younger, and so did Daphne.
    The following night Jane listened out for noises but heard nothing except for a faint pattering of feet at three o’clock in the morning. It sounded neither human nor elderly, but its indistinctness allowed Jane to put it down to illusion.
    The next day Mrs Chicopera from two doors up came round to ask if Jane had seen her missing cat, Buzz. Jane had not. They talked on the doorstep and Jane did not invite her in for coffee as she usually did because she did not want the Strellbriggs to meet Mrs Chicopera, who was from Zimbabwe.
    When Jane came into the sitting room after this interview she was puzzled not to see her mother. The Major was reading the paper and Daphne was examining her crocheted blanket which she had draped over an armchair. Its grey colour, irregular stitching and indeterminate shape made it resemble the web of a giant spider. It took a few seconds before Jane realised that Daphne had draped the blanket over her mother’s chair and that her mother was under it.
    Jane removed the blanket to reveal her mother who looked bewildered, but not greatly agitated. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Are we having lunch?’
    ‘Poor mother!’ said Jane, as lightly as she could without removing a hint of reproof. Daphne took the blanket from Jane with a smile but said nothing.
    The Major said: ‘Having a bit of a lark, weren’t we, mother? Having a bit of a game.’
    ‘What sort of game?’ Jane asked.
    ‘Pigby,’ said her mother.
    Jane looked at the three of them and they stared blandly back. It was as if they were all in a conspiracy against her. She left the room. There was another week to go and Jane was not quite sure whether she could stand it.

    **

    The nights began to exhaust her. They were full of small movements and noises beyond Jane’s bedroom door which, to her shame, she was now too frightened to open. Once or twice she thought she heard the Major calling: ‘Come here, Pigby! Come here, sir! Come here, I say!’ But she did not try to verify her supposition.
    On the Tuesday of the Strellbriggs’ last week Mrs Chicopera called to say