I told her I did know the Kempsey district and we exchanged a few place names. I told her I should go on my rounds and she came with me, again by unspoken agreement. It was very pleasant; I almost felt as if I was at a party. It was cool outside; she wrapped her bare arms around herself and stood close, using me as a windbreak.

‘Good name’, I said. ‘Broadway.’

‘Married name. I’m separated though, I think.’

‘How does that work? Thinking you’re separated?’ We went back inside and I poked my head into a room where bags and other guests’ belongings were stowed.

‘Mike’s given me a year off. His sister’s going to look after the kid. She’s twelve and she needs a break from me as much as I need one from her. I can do what I like for a year.’

‘How long have you got left?’

‘Well it’s coming up for a six-monthly review any day. I can go back or stay on down here.’

‘Which?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘How about money?’

‘We had a good year on the farm and in the business. Mike gave me half.’

‘What have you been doing?’

We were back in the main party room now; the noise level was still high but the party had thinned out. I was wondering whether Helen had an escort or whether she might like to stick around until the last reveller left. And what would my approach be? The matter was set aside by Paul Guthrie who planted himself squarely in front of me.

‘I’d like to talk to you, Mr Hardy. Excuse us, Helen.’

I didn’t want her to excuse us, but Guthrie was one of those experienced social movers who knew how to get his way without giving offence. I gave Helen Broadway my best we-haven’t-finished-yet look before Guthrie guided me into a quiet room. There was a table covered with a white cloth which had a nest of bottles on it and some baskets and plates with crispbreads and wafers of smoked salmon and turkey.