'Oh, we did all right.'

'Good. Rugby, eh? Here, you used to do a bit of that, didn't you? My wife saw the pictures.'

'Yes, I did once.'

He turned the key in the ignition and felt the turn in his skull so that the pain in his head shook with the roar of the engine, then settled down as quickly.

'You OK?' asked Fernie.

'Yes, thank you.'

'Well, good night then.'

'Good night.' He swung the car over the road and into the drive, slamming his foot hard on the brake as the branches of an overgrown laburnum slapped against his wing. He was used to this noise, but tonight it took him completely by surprise. He had stalled the engine and this time it took two or three turns of the starter to get it going again. At last he rolled gently into the garage. He shut the main doors from the inside and went through the side door which led into the kitchen. In the sink, dirty, were a cup and saucer, plate and cutlery. From the lounge came music and voices. He listened carefully and satisfied himself that the television was the source of everything. Then he took off his coat and hung it in the cloakroom. He looked at himself in the mirror above the hand basin for a moment and automatically adjusted his tie and ran his comb through the thinning hair. Then, recognizing a desire to delay, he grinned at his reflection and shrugged his shoulders, grimaced self-consciously at the theatricality of the gesture and moved back into the entrance hall. The lounge door was ajar. The only light within was the flickering brightness of the television picture. A man was singing, while in the background a lot of short skirted dancers sprang about in carefully choreographed abandon. His wife was sprawled out in the high-backed wing chair he thought of as his own. All he could see of her were her legs and an arm trailed casually down to the floor where an ashtray stood with a half-smoked cigarette burning on its edge.