"Monthly ones."

"Ah." PMT? she wondered. But it was hardly a subject she could pursue with him. He was of a generation where menstruation was never mentioned.

"Did Mr. Martin ever say why he thought she did it?"

He shook his head.

"The subject didn't arise.

What shall I say? We saw very little of him afterwards. He talked about his will once or twice, and the child it was all he thought about." He cleared his throat again.

"He became a recluse, you know. Wouldn't have anyone in the house, not even the Clarkes, and there was a time when Ted and he were close as brothers." His mouth turned down at the corners.

"It was Ted started it, mind. Took against Bob for some reason and wouldn't go in.

And others followed suit, of course, the way they do.

Reckon I was his only friend at the end. It was me as realised something was wrong, seeing the milk bottles outside."

"But why did he stay? He was rich enough to let number twenty-two go for peanuts. You'd have thought he'd go anywhere rather than stay with the ghosts of his family."

Mr. Hayes muttered to himself.

"Never understood it myself. Perhaps he wanted his friends about him."

"You said the Clarkes moved. Where did they go?"

He shook his head.

"No idea. They upped and went one morning without a word to anyone. A removal van took out their furniture three days later and the house stood empty for a year till the Blairs bought it. Never heard a word from them since. No forwarding address. Nothing. What shall I say?

We were good friends, the six of us, and I'm the only one left now.

Strange business."

Very strange, thought Roz.

"Can you remember which estate agent sold the house?"

"Peterson's, but you won't learn anything from them. Little Hitlers," he said, *all bursting with self importance Told me to mind my own business when I went in and asked what was what. It's a free world, I pointed out, no reason why a man shouldn't ask after his friends, but oh, no, they had instructions of confidentiality or some such rubbish.

What shall I say? Made out it was me the Clarkes were cutting their ties with. Hah!

More likely Bob, I told them, or ghosts. And they said if I spread those sort of rumours, they'd take action. You know who I blame. The estate agents' federation, if there is one, which I doubta" He rambled on, venting his spleen out of loneliness and frustration.

Roz felt sorry for him.

"Do you see much of your sons?" she asked when he drew to a halt.

"Now and then."

"How old are they?"

"Forties," he said after a moment's thought.

"What did they think of Olive and Amber?"

He pinched his nose again and waggled it from side to side.

"Never knew them. Left home long before either of the girls reached their teens."

"They didn't baby-sit or anything like that?"

"My lads? You wouldn't catch them baby-sitting." His old eyes moistened, and he nodded towards the sideboard where photographs of two young men in uniform crowded the surface.

"Fine boys. Soldiers." He thrust out his chest.

"Took my advice and joined up. Mind, they're out of jobs now, what with the bloomin' regiment being cut from under them. It makes you sick when you think them and me's served Queen and country for nigh on fifty years between us. Did I tell you I was in the desert during the war?" He looked vacantly about the room.

"There's a photograph somewhere of Churchill and Monty in a jeep. We all got one, us boys who were out there. Worth a bob or two, I should think. Now where is it?" He became agitated.

Roz picked up her briefcase.

"Don't worry about it now, Mr. Hayes. Perhaps I could see it next time I come."

"You coming back?"

"I'd like to, if it's no trouble." She took a card from her handbag, flicking the switch on the recorder at the same time.

"That's my name and telephone number. Rosalind Leigh. It's a London number but I'll be down here regularly over the next few weeks, so if you feel like a chat' she smiled encouragingly and stood up - *give me a ring."

He regarded her with astonishment.

"A chat.

Goodness me. A youngster like you has better things to do with her time."

Too right, she thought, but I do need information.

Her smile, like Mr. Crew's, was false.

"I'll be seeing you then, Mr. Hayes."

He pushed himself awkwardly out of his chair and held out a marbled hand.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Miss Leigh. What shall I say? It's not often an old man sees charming young ladies out of the blue."

He spoke with such sincerity that she felt chastened by her own lack of it. Why, oh why, she wondered, was the human condition so d.a.m.n b.l.o.o.d.y?

FOUR.

Roz found the local convent with the help of a police an "That'll be St. Angela's," he told her.

"Left at the traffic lights and left again. Large red-brick building set back from the road. You can't miss it. It's the only decent piece of architecture still standing round there."

It reared in solid Victorian magnificence above its surrounding clutter of cheap concrete obsolescence, a monument to education in a way that none of the modern prefabricated schools could ever be. Roz entered the front door with a sense of familiarity, for this was a schooling she recognised.

Glimpses through cla.s.sroom doors of desks, blackboards, shelves of books, attentive girls in neat uniforms. A place of quiet learning, where parents could dictate the sort of education their daughters received simply by threatening to remove the pupils and withhold the fees. And whenever parents had that power the requirements were always the same: discipline, structure, results. She peeped through a window into what was obviously the library. Well, well, no wonder Gwen had insisted on sending the girls here. Roz would put money on Parkway Comprehensive being an unruly bedlam where English, History, Religion and Geography were all taught as the single subject of General Studies, spelling was an anachronism, French an extracurricular activity, Latin unheard of, and Science a series of chats about the greenhouse effecta "Can I help you?"

She turned with a smile.

"I hope so."

A smart woman in her late fifties had paused in front of a door marked Secretary.

"Are you a prospective parent?"

"I wish I were. It's a lovely school. No children," she explained at the woman's look of puzzled enquiry.

"I see. So how can I help you?"

Roz took out one of her cards.

"Rosalind Leigh," she introduced herself.

"Would it be possible for me to talk to the headmistress?"

"Now?" said the woman in surprise.

"Yes, if she's free. If not, I can make an appointment and come back later."

The woman took the card and read it closely.

"May I ask what you want to talk about?"

Roz shrugged.

"Just some general information about the school and the sort of girls who come here."

"Would you be the Rosalind Leigh who wrote Through the Looking Gla.s.s by any chance?"

Roz nodded. Through the Looking Gla.s.s, her last book and her best, had sold well and won some excellent reviews. A study of the changing perceptions of female beauty down the ages, she wondered now how she had ever managed to summon the energy to write it. A labour of love, she thought, because the subject had fascinated her.

"I've read it." The other smiled.

"I agreed with very few of your conclusions but it was extremely thought-provoking none the less. You write lovely prose, but I'm sure you know that."

Roz laughed. She felt an immediate liking for the woman.

"At least you're honest."

The other looked at her watch.

"Come into my office. I have Some parents to see in half an hour, but I'm happy to give you general information until then.

This way." She opened the secretary's door and ushered Roz through to an adjoining office.

"Sit down, do. Coffee?"

"Please." Roz took the chair indicated and watched her busy herself with a kettle and some cups.

"Are you the headmistress?"

"I am."

"They were always nuns in my day."

"So you're a convent girl. I thought you might be. Milk?"

"Black and no sugar, please."

She placed a steaming cup on the desk in front of Roz and sat down opposite her.

"In fact I am a nun. Sister Bridget. My order gave up wearing the habit quite some time ago. We found it tended to create an artificial barrier between us and the rest of society." She chuckled.

"I don't know what it is about religious uniforms, but people try to avoid you if they can. I suppose they feel they have to be on their best behaviour. It's very frustrating.

The conversation is often so stilted."

Roz crossed her legs and relaxed into the chair. She was unaware of it but her eyes betrayed her. They brimmed with all the warmth and humour that, a year ago, had been the outward expression of her personality.

Bitterness, it seemed, could only corrode so far.

"It's probably guilt," she said.

"We have to guard our tongues in case we provoke the sermon we know we deserve." She sipped the coffee.

"What made you think I was a convent girl?"

"Your book. You get very hot under the collar about established religions. I guessed you were either a lapsed Jew or a lapsed Catholic. The Protestant yoke is easier to discard, being far less oppressive in the first place."