*You don't live in this world,' Kate said. *Fair enough, but you don't even live in your parents' world. You live the way your grandfather lives.'

*We don't stay here all the time. Rob's been away to school,' I'd say defensively.

*School! What sort of a life would you call that? They don't see a soul but themselves from one end of the three months to the next. It's worse than a barracks, that place, for at least a soldier gets his pay. But they'll never make a soldier out of your brother.'

She'd never seen Rob's school, but she knew enough from what we told her. She didn't think it was a hard life, in spite of Rob's spectacular tales of beatings and early runs and brutal, silent fights at night in the dormitories. After all, they had plenty to eat and enough energy to play games morning, noon and night. She just thought it was stupid to send a boy to such a place, and as for paying for it, my grandfather must be mad, especially when there was work needed on the roof.

*I have three buckets in my bedroom, full up every time it rains,' she informed us, *but then your grandfather never goes to the top of the house.'

There were no buckets at Mr Bullivant's. No water closets that ran dry and stank in hot weather, and froze in the winter. At home we had fires that mottled our faces when we were within a few feet of them, and beyond them an icy wilderness of draughts. Mr Bullivant had put in the latest underfloor heating. Hot air blew up sweetly through square vents in the corners of rooms. There was a network of piping under the floors, and a huge furnace that was fed like a juggernaut, day and night. I imagined there was one boy to tend it, bare to the waist, sweating as he loaded his shovel, tossed it into the roaring red heart of the flames, bent to load it again. When the hall door opened you were lapped in waves of soft, flowery heat. There were always bowls of dried rose-petals, and fresh, out-of-season flowers. I think the flowers came down from London, wadded with cotton-wool against the frost. This time there were narcissi in every room, drifts of them, white and sherbet-scented with small, intensely gold hearts. Their scent pricked the air like tiny needles. They brought the delicate chill of spring with them. There was no slavery to the seasons here. I imagined waking in the morning, stretching out in the steady, even heat, peeling off my nightdress and walking naked to a bathroom where water spouted, reliably steaming, from huge brass taps. I wondered if I would miss our alternations of roasting and shivering, which were as natural to us as the squeeze and swell of our hearts.

The sun had melted a thin crust of snow but now as it sank the air was freezing again, blue in the shadows. Mr Bullivant was watching me.

*Here,' he said, handing me the soft brush, *you take this. Shall we clear the snow so you can see it?'

I stood by him, my shoulder nearly touching his arm. He took my hand, guided it, plunged it through the snow. I touched metal. But it was blunt through my glove and I couldn't get the feel of it. I pulled my gloves off and reached in again through the coat of snow. I was touching a finger, the metal so cold it burnt me. I brushed, and it appeared, a pure, dull green. It was a hand, grasping a pouch of arrows.

*Bronze,' said Mr Bullivant. He began to brush the snow off in long smooth sweeps of the broom. The hand became an arm, the arm gave way to a shoulder. But I stood back, letting him reveal what was there.

*Here she is,' he said. *Diana huntress, chaste and fair. Wait, in a minute you'll see her hounds.'

The dogs strained towards me, slavering. The woman had a bow in one hand, and her quiverful of arrows in the other. Her bronze face was fierce, the face of a huntress seen by her prey. There was dirt in the deep sockets of her eyes, and her mouth was half-open, urging the dogs on towards us.

*See their mouths? That's where the water comes out. I've found some of the piping. But the pump won't be working, not after all this time.' He took the soft brush from me and worked gently at her eyes. But the dirt was frozen in.

*Her left arm's damaged,' he said. *Look where she holds the arrows.'

It looked as if someone had done it deliberately. The bronze was badly dented, spoiling the smooth swell of muscle and fall of cloth the sculptor had planned.

*It can all be restored,' said Mr Bullivant. *Stand back, then you can see her properly.'

We crunched backwards over the snow. The brushed bronze gleamed strangely. Diana's head was up, the hair bound back hard from the beautiful brow. The dogs hung there, caught in mid-leap by her command.

*There,' said Mr Bullivant, *what do you think of her?'

His face was closer to mine than it had ever been. I'd never noticed the difference in the colour of his eyes before. The right one had a stain of brown in its green. It was only the heavy lids that made his eyes look sleepy. They were sharper than the smell of narcissi, the pupils pinpointing as he looked at me against the whiteness of snow. We were much too close.

*You're cold,' he said, noticing my shiver. *We'll go into the house.'

*No, I'm not cold. I like it here.'

*You like the snow, don't you? It suits you.'

*Yes.' I looked around. The sun was small and red now, hazed as if there was more bad weather coming. The trees were black as rooks. As soon as we went indoors night would leap to the windows, blotting out everything beyond. Out here it would stay half-lit by snow for hours, while rabbits and deer limped through the icy garden and gnawed bark from the young trees.

*I always think of you outside, in the woods or in the garden,' said Mr Bullivant.

*Do you?'

*Yes, why do you sound so surprised?'

*I suppose a I don't believe that people think of me, when I'm not there.'

*That's rather sad. Why wouldn't they? Thinking of people when they're not there a it's one of life's great pleasures, isn't it? You must do it?'

*It's not a pleasure for me,' I said instantly. I hadn't known I was going to say that. Our parents were rarely mentioned by our neighbours now. They had been fed enough fictions to fill the silence. My mother was abroad for her health, in the south of France. My father had died in a sanatorium. Conveniently, my grandfather could not bear to speak of either of them. This certainly avoided the risk of questions. My grandfather had turned my parents into shadows, and, as far as I knew, everybody had agreed to it.

Mr Bullivant looked at me and his face changed. *I'm sorry. Call me a clumsy idiot. I forgot about your father and mother.'

*Oh! I wasn't thinking of them.' I stared at the cold graininess of the statue. A garden in winter, no scent, no flowers. But in my head there was the sickening smell of roses. It made me not able to breathe. I had my father's arms around me, squeezing.

*Tea,' said Mr Bullivant. *D'you like Lapsang Souchong? And muffins with crab-apple jelly? And there's a chocolate cake for Rob.'

There was a fire lit, as well as the central heating. It was a pale, shining fire and the shadow of its flames flowered on the Chinese carpet. There were three bronze looking-glasses on the walls, and in them the room was secret and brilliant. It was quiet apart from the little shift and stir of the coals. I didn't feel like talking. It was enough to sit and breathe the warm, sweet, pent-up air. Outside it was growing dark, but Rob was still in the stables.

*I'll send a message,' said Mr Bullivant, and he stretched out his hand to the bell but did nothing. Warmth crept through us, flushing my face. I watched his hand. The nails were cut square, very strong-looking and smooth. I had taken off my things in the hall and I thought how dull my dress was against this room. The watery green silk that covered the sofa was finer than anything I'd ever worn. I wished I wasn't sitting opposite a looking-glass. Every time I looked up I caught sight of myself, with that flat, startled look in my eyes that people have when they have to sit too long to be photographed. When the tea came I would have to pour it out, and the teacups would be delicate. My hands holding them would be big and red. Livvy's hands would look just right, though they were the only part of Livvy I disliked. They were white, and their tapering fingers had a slight fleshiness, like the meat in a crab's claw.

*Ah, here we are. Tea!' said Mr Bullivant. The girl placed the tray in front of him and set out the cups. They were big, shallow, white china cups with a rice-grain pattern in them.

*I hope you don't mind,' he apologized. *I can't bear fiddling with dolls' cups.'

*No, I like them.'

He smiled. *I rather thought you would. You don't strike me as a fiddly person.'

*What are the sandwiches?'

He pointed. *Egg and anchovy a my passion. Don't feel you have to share it. Cucumber. I thought we ought to have cucumber. And potted beef for Rob.'

There were almond tarts too, and a dense, nearly black fruitcake with its top covered in glazed cherries, angelica and walnuts. There were the muffins he had promised.

*Would you cut me some of that?' asked Mr Bullivant. *Another weakness, I'm afraid; I eat it with Wiltshire cheese. Look the other way if you like.'

I cut a big wad of the cake and a piece of the crumbly cheese and watched him pack them together and eat them. The tea was pale gold and fragrant. I thought of Kate's black tea. Without its kick in her stomach she'd never keep working from dawn to midnight, she said. The heat of food and fire spread down to my finger-ends. I sighed.

*Have you had enough? What about more of these sandwiches a they're very good.'

I took a piece of the fruitcake. It was moist and shiny, and much lighter than it looked. I bit into a piece of crystallized ginger.

*We'll fetch Rob in a while,' said Mr Bullivant. *No need to drag him away from the horses. We'll have fresh tea later. Come on, we'll have a look around. There's a room finished you haven't seen. My study.'

My idea of a study was a dark-brown, leathery, smoky room, with light flattened by half-curtained windows. Grandfather had such a study, though it was an affectation: he was much too restless to read. But I was ready to be polite. Everything would be new, at least, and I loved the smell of new leather. We went down a half-finished corridor. The floorboards had just been laid. Everything in this wing had been rotten, he said, it had all had to be torn up. But there was no dry rot, thank God.

*Though of course you can smell that as soon as you step over the threshold. I would never have bought the place.'

*Mmm.' I thought vaguely of the smell in certain parts of our house. Was that dry rot? If so Mr Bullivant would certainly have diagnosed it. Better not ask.

*Here.' There was no door handle, but a piece of rope wound round the door kept it from closing. The rope was pale, like ship's rope. He pulled down a switch and the room sprang into light. It came on in a soft flood and there were pictures everywhere, bathed and glowing. There was no harsh central light, no glare. The walls were a warm, living white. A very pale, slightly worn rug lay on the floor. Tiny unicorns ran on a background which was the colour of woods in April as tree after tree lights into leaf. In front of the long windows there was a chair, quite small and finely made. No rows of books, no tobacco smoke, no studded leather.

But there were the pictures. They were so alive that they seemed to vibrate on the walls. You could not have had books and heaps of paper in here, because the pictures would have cancelled them out and made them look like dead things. And you couldn't turn your back on pictures like these to stare at a desk. The wall on my left had two enormous paintings on it. One was taller than the other, almost from floor to ceiling. It was a painting of a wood in winter: at least, I thought it was that. But not a wood like our woods: the light was quite different. The bright leafless trees shone as if they had been polished. The strokes that made up the painting were thick and very noticeable: it looked as if you were meant to be able to see how the paint had been put on. I was used to paint which blended immaculately under shiny varnish, so that it would look as real as possible. This painter had had a different idea of reality. The sky was so pale it dazzled, and behind the wood there was a heap of hills, purple as damsons. The other painting was square. It was painted as if from high above a town, in the burning heat of July or August. There were almost no shadows; it must have been not long after noon. The sun was so intense it had bleached out much of the colour from the tiled roofs and deep crooked streets that ran between them. The roofs tipped against one another, irregularly shaped, like dominoes toppling crazily. The houses were pale as squares of harvest wheat.

*Who painted them?' I asked.

*A man called Richard Tandy.'

*I've never seen pictures like these.'

*No. Not many people have.'

*It's not England, is it?'

*No. It's in the Pyrenees, in the forest above Pau. That one's Italy, where I live.'

*Is your villa in it?' I asked, stepping close to the picture. He laughed.

*No. That's the town, where the market is. My villa is about four miles outside the town.'

*Do you know him, then? Richard Tandy?'

*Yes, I've known him a long time. I've been buying his pictures for years. He doesn't sell many, you know. People don't want them.'

*Don't they?' I asked. In a way I could see why. You could not have these paintings in a room and get on with eating and drinking or quarrelling, as if they were not there. I could understand why there was nothing but the carpet and chair in Mr Bullivant's study. The paintings disturbed the air. It was more than a vibration: the colours were as exultant as angels. I thought of the trite sweetness of the few flower studies we had, or the relentlessly detailed portraits of dying animals which had come with the house. Richard Tandy was painting in a different language.

*I like this room much better than your drawing-room.'

*Do you?' He was looking at me attentively, warmly. *Yes, you're right, of course. I am happier in here than anywhere else. My place in Italy is like this. Nothing on the walls except pictures. The plaster's a bit irregular, you know; you could look at it for ever. You can see how it's been put on. And then the floors are tiled. Tiny black-and-white tiles; quite cold in winter. But it's never winter for long.'

*Why don't you make Ash Court like that then, if you prefer it?'

*Oh, you couldn't do that here. The climate's against it.' He stared at the pictures. His face was heavy from this angle, set. I wondered if the climate was the only thing that was against him, here. I turned back to the pictures. I re-entered the wood in winter and the burning town. He had turned too, and we stood together for a long time, not speaking. There was the faint sound of our breathing. I drew closer to the painting of the roofs. I wanted to touch them, feel the brushstrokes. Even the shadows looked as if they would give off heat. I traced the dense terracotta line of a roof, my fingers not quite touching the canvas.

*Touch it,' he said.

I touched. The ridges and grooves of the paint felt familiar, like the whorls on my own fingers. I was in that baking heat, in that pure, acrid smell of sun.

*Come back,' said Mr Bullivant. I turned and smiled at him.

*I thought I'd lost you,' he said.

*No. Not quite.'

*I'm glad you like them. I thought you would.' He pointed to a small lozenge of dull, deep red. *There's a colour that would suit you.'

*It's exactly the same colour as dried blood,' I said.

*All the same, it'd suit you.'

I turned aside, letting the sunburn of his look rest on my cheek.

*You are very like your mother,' he said suddenly, as if surprised.

*How do you mean? How would you know?'

*I've met her.'

I stared at him. *You can't have done. She'd left long before you moved here.'

*Not here. In France.'

*But you don't live in France. You live in Italy,' I said stupidly. He sighed, *I don't know her, Catherine, not really. I've met her, that's all. In Antibes one winter. She's quite a figure there ...'

*Quite a figure a what do you mean?'

*People know who she is. She's very a remarkable,' he answered, thoughtfully, as if he'd only just now realized what my mother was.

*She can't be all that remarkable. After all, she's forty.'

He smiled. *Oh yes, she's got grey hair. That kind of hair goes grey early. You've the same hair yourself. But she seemed quite happy with it.'

I couldn't even begin to picture it. *Did you talk to her?'

*Not for long. Half an hour perhaps.'

*What did you talk about?'

*Oh a other people, I think. She made a lot of jokes. Good ones, too. There were people we both knew.'

There were people we both knew. He talked about her as if she was in the next room. She made jokes, she knew people, she was remarkable. She simply couldn't be related to the beautiful figure of guilt and silence we'd grown up with. There were so many things I wanted to ask that they silenced me. And I was angry, too. He had talked to her when we had not. My own mother.

*Why did you never say?'

*You don't talk about her, do you?'

*That's no reason. We don't talk because there's nothing to say.'

*I should have thought there was a lot to say. Too much, perhaps.' He was watching me carefully.

*Well, what did she say then? Did she talk about us?'

*No. I told her I'd bought Ash Court and she said she knew the house.'

*I don't suppose anyone even knows she has children.'

*If they don't, it's not because she's trying to hide anything. She's not that kind of person,' he said.

His confidence enraged me. *How would you know? You've only spent half an hour with her.'

*You've spent half an hour in front of these pictures,' he said, *and you know they're different from anything you've seen before. You know them.'