He stood on the beach (four hundred steps) like an angel, recently landed, his hair buffeted by turbulent air. The son’s hair was golden-red, wiry, always awry. His father’s hair was black, singed with silver fire. His father was dark and sinewy, like something made from tarred rope. Around this he wound belts and ropes to hold his hammers and chisels, his buckets and bags. He wore thick woollen pullovers and a mottled oilskin the colour of burnt toast. He slid down the red crumbling combe (count that as five steps) clanging his buckets together, barking his knuckles on the gravel-rough clay. Then she would feel not remorse, but terror. For if she won, she would know herself a robber. Tomorrow she would have won or lost, but whatever happened, hap piness would be denied her. My mama would not condemn me to loneliness forever. She could discard the spades and have a king. She knew she could control the cards with the strength of her will and there, now, here, the proof: four red threes and a two of spades. Lucinda knew she would win this hand because she had dealt it. She answered the question about her losses. She thought only: My mama would think this household horrid. Lucinda noted it with far less degree of shock than might be thought likely. His stockinged foot was somewhere in amongst Miss Malcolm’s skirts.

He had his leg stretched beneath the table.

Suit of the card, but she did see that Mr Fig had taken off his boot.

Oscar and lucinda author