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he wondered, had that lain there? He examined his fingers, crusted with grey dust, and wiped them on the duster which he folded carefully over the dirt and placed in his canvas bag. His briefcase he would leave on his desk. The gold royal insignia on the case had faded now, but it brought a memory: the day when he had first been issued with an official black briefcase, its insignia bright as a badge of office.
    He had held the obligatory farewell drinks party before luncheon. The Permanent Secretary had paid the expected compliments with a suspicious fluency; he had done this before. A Minister had put in an appearance and only once had glanced discreetly at his watch. There had been an atmosphere of spurious conviviality interspersed with moments of silent constraint. By one-thirty people had begun to drift unobtrusively away. It was, after all, Friday. Their weekend arrangements beckoned.
    Closing his office door for the last time and entering the empty corridor, he was surprised and a little concerned at his lack of emotion. Surely he should be feeling something—regret, mild satisfaction, a small surge of nostalgia, the mental acknowledgement of a rite of passage? He felt nothing. There were the usual officials at the reception desk in the entrance hall and both were busy. It relieved him of the obligation to say some embarrassed words of farewell. He decided to take his favourite route to Waterloo, across St. James’s Park, down Northumberland Avenue, across Hungerford footbridge. He went through the swing doors for the last time and made his way across Birdcage Walk and into the sweet autumnal dishevelment of the Park. In the middle of the bridge over the lake he paused as he always did to contemplate one of London’s most beautiful views, across the water and the island to the towers and roofs of Whitehall. Beside him was a mother with a swaddled baby in a three-wheeled pram. Next to her was a toddler throwing bread to the ducks. The air became acrimonious as the birds jostled and scrabbled in a swirl of water. It was a scene which, on his lunchtime walks, he had watched for over twenty years, but now it brought back a recent and disagreeable memory.
    A week ago he had taken the same path. There had been a solitary woman feeding the ducks with crusts from her sandwiches. She was short, her sturdy body enveloped in a thick tweed coat, a woollen cap drawn down over her ears. The last crumb tossed, she turned and, seeing him, had smiled a little tentatively. From boyhood he had found unexpected intimacies from strangers repellent, almost threatening, and he had nodded unsmiling and walked quickly away. It had been as curtly dismissive as if she had been propositioning him. He had reached the steps of the Duke of York’s column before sudden realization came. She had been no stranger but Tally Clutton, the housekeeper at the museum. He had failed to recognize her in other than the brown button-up overall that she normally wore. Now the memory provoked a spurt of irritation, as much against her as against himself. It was an embarrassing mistake to have made and one that he would have to put right when they next met. That would be the more difficult as they could be discussing her future. The cottage she lived in rent-free must be worth at least £350 a week in rent. Hampstead wasn’t cheap, particularly Hampstead with a view of the Heath. If he decided to replace her, the free accommodation would be an inducement. They might be able to attract a married couple, the wife to do the housecleaning, the man to take over the garden. On the other hand, Tally Clutton was hardworking and well liked. It might be imprudent to unsettle the domestic arrangements when there were so many other changes to be put in hand. Caroline, of course, would fight to keep both Clutton and Godby and he was anxious to avoid a fight with Caroline. There was no problem with Muriel Godby. The woman was cheap and remarkably competent,