Mr Garforth was at the table, refilling the lamp with paraffin.

'Don't talk like that,' he said. 'You sound like an old colonel.'

'Beats looking like one.'

'Rubbish. I ent got the jowls.'

Delphine set the kettle down on the worktop. 'The what?'

'The jowls. The jowls.' He slapped his palms against his cheeks and smooshed them up and down. 'I'm too young in the face.'

'Too soft in the head, more like.'

'Watch it.'

She took the lid off the little blue teapot and poured in hot water.

'How much tea you got in there?' he said.

'Two spoonfuls.'

'Stick in another.'

She replaced the lid. 'No.'

'Go on. It's one spoon per person, then one for the pot.' He put down the paraffin canister and moved as if to get up. 'Go on. Else it tastes like dishwater.'

'Then you're not brewing it long enough. Two is plenty. If you make it too strong, you spoil the flavour.'

In front of the fireplace hung wet clothes, socks and longjohns and impossibly huge underpants, filling the cottage with sweet damp mist. Mr Garforth sat with his back to her. He was barefoot, wearing a pair of loose brown cotton trousers held up by braces, the top three buttons of his shirt undone. The hearth made noises like a game of marbles.

Delphine stood by the teapot, using a teaspoon to tap out a march against its spout while whistling a loose pastiche of Battle Hymn of the Republic.

'That'll be ready now,' said Mr Garforth, without turning round.

She waited until she had completed a full verse and chorus before pouring the tea. She added three spoonfuls of brown sugar for Mr Garforth then a splash of milk in each mug.

'There you go.' She set his down in front of him.

He picked it up and blew. Wisps of steam peeled from the surface. She watched him take a sip.

'Aah.' His chair creaked as he settled back into it. Delphine glanced at her reflection in the window and realised she was smiling.

'Fearlessness,' she said. 'That's what a soldier most fears seeing in his enemy's eyes.'

'Not even close.'

'Drat.'

'So,' he said, 'what mischief have you got yourself into today?'

She levered the lid off the biscuit tin and pushed a digestive into her mouth. 'Mwuffin.'

He swatted the air and shook his head, disgusted. 'You've got the manners of a Zulu.'

Delphine chewed through the mouthful as fast as possible and swallowed. 'Actually, the Zulu people are a race of proud warriors, and two, I've been busy doing schoolwork.'

'A likely story.'

'I know it is.' She grabbed a second biscuit then patted the lid back down. She walked round so she could see his face. 'So . . . you know by the lake, the ice house?'

Mr Garforth stared at the table.

'Hello?' she said. Sometimes he dozed off in the middle of the conversation. He could go to sleep with his eyes open.

He sniffed, looked at her. 'Yes?'

'So you know it?'

'Of course I know it.'

'What's it for?'

He opened his mouth, let his upper dentures fall onto his tongue, sucked them back into place. In the firelight, his ears looked like they were melting.

'It's not for anything. It's a ruin.'

'Someone must have built it.'

He took a sip of tea. 'I suppose they must.'

'Well, what did they build it for?'

'What do you think someone builds an ice house for?'

Delphine hesitated. 'Ice?'

'Yes, well bloody done.' Mr Garforth thumped his mug back down on the table, sloshing tea. 'Now, will you please stop going on about it.'

'All right. There's no need to yell at me.'

'This is my house and if I want to raise my voice, I will,' he said.

Delphine's face felt hot. She looked down into her tea.

'Sorry.'

'Don't go anywhere near it. It's not a bloody playground.'

'I wasn't going to,' she said. 'I just wanted to know what it was for.'

'Nonsense. You wanted to break in. You wanted to poke your nose around and pry and interfere. You won't listen.'

'I do listen.'

'Liar!' He rounded on her, jabbing his finger. 'I told you to kill rats. You took one as a pet. I told you not to go in the tunnels. You went in the tunnels.'

'I never!'

'After everything I've done for you, you'd stand here in my own home and lie to me.'

Delphine focused on the white hairs in his nostrils. No one used the attic except her. She checked she was alone every time she used the tunnels. She had been so careful. He was bluffing. He had to be.

'You're wrong,' she said. 'I never went in those tunnels.'

His nostrils swelled and shrank. The little hairs shivered.

'Swear on your mother's life.'

'I swear I never went in the tunnels.'

'On your mother's life.'

'All right, then.'

'Well?'

She looked him in the eyes. 'I swear on my mother's life I never played in the tunnels.'

'Not played. Went.'

Delphine threw a hand up. 'Played, went. Whatever you like.'

He glared at her.

'Right,' she said. 'Fine. I swear on my mother's life I never went in the tunnels, there, are you satisfied?'

'Get out.'

'What? I said I never did it.'

'Go on.' He turned his back. 'I can't stand to look at you.'

'Why are you being so horrible?'

He did not answer.

Delphine stood clutching her mug of tea. Mr Garforth plucked at his side whiskers with long, dirty fingers. Half his body was glutted with shadow. She set her tea down beside the sink.

She opened the door, waited. Mr Garforth closed his eyes. Delphine stepped into the night, slamming the door behind her.

CHAPTER 14.

THE BATMAN.

July 1935 One morning before sunrise Delphine stood at the edge of a field, listening to the motion of the wheat. She knelt, unclasped her hands.

'You're free,' she said.

Vicky looked up at her uncertainly.

Delphine placed Vicky on the ground. She ran a knuckle across the back of the rat's hairy ears.

'Run.'

Vicky did not move.

'Go!' Delphine gave her a nudge. 'I'm setting you free, stupid. Go on. Boo!' She lunged. Vicky darted into the stalks and was gone.

Delphine rose and looked out across a rippling golden ocean. The wind pressed at her back, insistent, like a dare.

When Delphine entered the stables, Daddy was in a corner with Miss DeGroot. He was showing her a selection of canvases propped against the wall. She was cooing and touching his arm.

The room was hot. All his things were stacked neatly: canvases, brushes sorted by size paints, rags, jars of turpentine, the dull, greengrey book Mr Kung had left on the beach. The floor had been swept she saw now it was stone, with shallow drainage channels leading to circular iron grates.

'Such bold strokes!' said Miss DeGroot meaningfully, stepping back like a carpenter. She tugged on her gold silk neckerchief. 'Like chasms.'

'It's not finished yet,' said Daddy.

'Oh, but you mustn't touch it!' She clutched his elbow. 'This is raw, undiluted.' She drew a sharp, scintillating breath. 'The utter dominance of the line.' She held the sentiment for a moment, then exhaled, replete. 'Did you say you fought?'

Daddy seemed thrown by the abrupt switch of topic. 'Oh. Yes.'

'Really. You look far too young.' She cast a glance back over her shoulder and spotted Delphine. 'Ah! Your other masterpiece.' She turned him like a show pony.

Daddy's sleeves were rolled up. He had black paint on his fingers.

'What do you want?' he said.

'I need to speak to you,' said Delphine. She had made up her mind. Whatever the truth behind Propp, Alderberen and Lansley's intentions, she felt ruin looming like a stormfront. She would demand the family leave. She would make it impossible to stay.

'Not now.'