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aglow. ‘And here’s George, the bloody simpleton, still letting his chickens scratch around in the open air as if they were household pets. Not to mention his veal calves, which are allowed to sleep on straw and get more exercise than his blasted dogs do, probably. And he wonders why he doesn’t get good white meat out of them!’
    ‘Well, I don’t know …’ says Mortimer. ‘Perhaps he has other things to think about. Other priorities.’
    ‘Other priorities?’
    ‘You know, the … welfare of the animals. The atmosphere of the farm.’
    ‘Atmosphere?’
    ‘Sometimes there can be more to life than making a profit, Dorothy.’
    She stares at him. Perhaps it is her fury at finding herself addressed in a tone which she remembers from many years ago – the tone which an adult would adopt towards a trusting child – which provokes the insolence of her reply.
    ‘You know, Daddy always said that you and Aunt Tabitha were the odd ones of the family.’
    She puts down her glass, pushes past her uncle and moves quickly to join in a conversation on the other side of the room.
    ∗
    Meanwhile, up in the nursery, there are two more Winshaws with a part to play in the family’s history. Roddy and Hilary, aged nine and seven, have tired of the rocking-horse, the model railway, the table-tennis set, the dolls and the puppets. They have even tired of their attempts to rouse Nurse Gannet by tickling her softly under the nose with a feather. (The feather in question having previously belonged to a sparrow which Roddy shot down with his airgun earlier that afternoon.) They are on the point of abandoning the nursery altogether and going downstairs to eavesdrop on the party – although, to tell the truth, the thought of walking down those long, dimly lit corridors and staircases frightens them somewhat – when Roddy has a flash of inspiration.
    ‘I know!’ he says, seizing upon a little pedal car and squeezing himself with difficulty into the driver’s seat. ‘I’ll be Yuri Gagarin, and this is my space-car, and I’ve just landed on Mars.’
    For like every other boy of his age, Roddy worships the young cosmonaut. Earlier in the year he was even taken to see him when he visited the Earl’s Court exhibition, and Mortimer had held him aloft so that he could actually shake hands with the man who had voyaged among the stars. Now, crammed awkwardly into the undersized car, he starts to pedal with all his might while making guttural engine noises. ‘Gagarin to Mission Control. Gagarin to Mission Control. Are you reading me?’
    ‘Well who am I supposed to be then?’ says Hilary.
    ‘You can be Laika, the Russian space dog.’
    ‘But she’s dead. She died in her rocket. Uncle Henry told me.’
    ‘Well just pretend.’
    So Hilary starts scampering around on all fours, barking madly, sniffing at the Martian rocks and scratching in the dust. She keeps it up for about two minutes.
    ‘This is really boring.’
    ‘Shut up. This is Major Gagarin to Mission Control. I have safely landed on Mars and am now looking for signs of intelligent life. All I can see so far are some – hey, what’s that?’
    A bright object on the nursery floor has caught his eye, and he pedals towards it as fast as he can: but Hilary gets there first.
    ‘A half-crown!’
    She covers the coin with her hand and her eyes shine with triumph. Then Major Gagarin steps out of his space-car and stands over her.
    ‘I saw it first. Give me that.’
    ‘Not on your life.’
    Slowly but purposefully, Roddy places his right foot over Hilary’s hand and begins to press down.
    ‘Give it to me!’
    ‘No!’
    Her voice rises to a scream as Roddy increases the pressure, until there is a sudden crack: the sound of bones crushing and splintering. Hilary howls as her brother lifts his foot and picks up the coin with calm satisfaction. There is blood on the nursery floor. Hilary sees this and her screams get shriller and wilder until they are loud enough to wake even