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to help her slide over the shingle.
    ‘They’re marvellous,’ said Jennifer, ‘I love them. They’re like a ballet troupe. When there’s a heavy sea running, they have to be awfully quick. If they get knocked sideways by a big wave, they can capsize. That boy, Billy Whiting, is a wonderful singer. He’s been in the chorus for two Benjamin Britten operas – and even had a solo. He’s got a wonderful temperament. I’d love to have a son like him.’
    ‘Jennifer, you’re crying. What’s wrong?’
    ‘It’s you, Kit, and all the others too. You and your bombs, you and your fucking bombs.’
    ‘Jennie, please …’
    ‘Don’t touch me. I’m all right. Let’s see what they’ve caught.’

Chapter Three
     
     
    The meal began with Suffolk slip sole à la meunière and went on to spring lamb with minted new potatoes and garden peas. Kit supplied the wine, vintage claret ‘re-looted’ from the cellar of a Reichsmarschall by the 101st Airborne, and a bottle of’33 champagne fine cognac from the embassy. Jennifer went to bed early: she felt tired and dizzy. After dinner, Brian and Kit took their brandies into the garden. Kit turned and looked at the house. The thatched roof and chimneys were black silhouettes dimly sketched against the night sky. ‘Beautiful place – very oldie England.’
    ‘It’s not old at all. It’s fake Tudor, built about 1900. It used to be a gatehouse. The lord of the manor wanted to show off and pretend the workers were picturesque as well as servile. But fortunately Jennifer loves it.’
    ‘How did you end up living here?’
    ‘The Ministry requisitioned it – and a lot of other houses – during the war. This cottage and a few others were kept on to billet staff working on the island.’
    Kit looked around: there was nothing but blackness. Thick forest enclosed the garden on every side. ‘It certainly is … quiet.’
    ‘At first, I was a little concerned – I feared that Jennie might find it too lonely here. I even suggested we find a place in the village, but she assured me that she loves seclusion.’ Brian paused. ‘Could this place remind her of home, of Rideout’s Landing?’
    ‘The farm was isolated, but being on a river it seemed …’ Kit didn’t finish the sentence. He sensed that Brian wanted to know more about his wife’s background, but it wasn’t a past that he wanted to share. Brian had Jennifer’s body, why did he want the other stuff too. ‘In any case,’ said Kit, ‘there were always lots of people around.’
    Brian sipped his brandy, then said almost apologetically. ‘Jennie doesn’t often talk about her family. It’s as if she’s cut off her past by changing countries and nationalities.’ The Englishman paused; he wasn’t used to probing the feelings of others. ‘I suppose it might have something to do with her brothers.’
    ‘She’ll never get over it.’ Kit stopped and listened. ‘What’s that noise? Stray dogs?’
    ‘Muntjac deer. They bark – especially when they’re mating.’
    ‘You’ve got your own deer park. You must feel like an Elizabethan grandee.’
    ‘Hardly. The muntjac are a foreign species – like the North American grey squirrel. The Victorian toffs who introduced these animals were too vain and too stupid to understand how much damage they would do to the native fauna. The grey squirrels raid birds’ nests and have driven out our native reds.’
    Kit smiled at the image of American squirrels chasing British ‘reds’ and almost made a McCarthyite wisecrack. But he bit his tongue for he sensed that Brian neither liked nor trusted him – and that drink made him aggressive. Kit steered the conversation to the calmer waters of flattery. ‘You seem very knowledgeable about natural history.’
    ‘When I was a boy I used to love walking on the moors, places like Blackstone Edge that you’ve probably never heard of. Much of the flora was very primitive, such as club-mosses and ferns, the sort of species you