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Lila came gliding through the door and switched on the lamp: “Janet, my dear, whatever is the matter?” On the table was that prize of prizes, a giant puffball. “I kept it specially to show you. It’s so rare to find one at this time of year.” Janet sat down abruptly; she was still shaking. “Someone was knocking on the window. They ran away when they heard my voice.” “Don’t be absurd; it would just be a branch in the wind.” “There isn’t a wind. It’s really still tonight.” “Well, I shouldn’t worry. If it doesn’t worry me, it shouldn’t worry you. Tell me about school.” Janet started to tell her. Lila poured herself a tumbler of whisky. Soon it was clear to Janet that Lila wasn’t listening; she was gazing at Mouflon and her eyes were glassy. Everyone that evening had asked her what school was like, and Janet had willingly begun on either the official Enid Blyton version (for adults) or the dismal truth (for Francis, Rhona, and Lila). In each case there was a brief show of keen interest from grown-ups: “Oh, what fun it sounds! Of course, we were sure you would love it! Things have certainly changed since my day!” (Vera); “An excellent opportunity” (Hector); “Aye, it was fair time you were awa’ frae those great gowking lads” (Nanny). There was no interest at all from her siblings: “How dreary. Tell me no more. If I were you I’d jump over the cliff” (Francis); “Oh yes, good. Have you heard about my stick insect?” (Rhona). She heard Vera telling Constance, who was staying for Christmas, how pleased she was that Janet had made friends with Cynthia: “She sounds such a sensible, wholesome sort of girl, a good influence.” “Yes,” said Constance, assuming her didactic manner, “it’s so interesting that even quite young children will choose a friend who is entirely different.” “Attraction of opposites, I believe it’s called,” said Hector helpfully. “No, Hector, that’s really rather crude. It’s something infinitely more profound, that yearning for completion which we find in Plato. The desire and pursuit of the whole.” Then, as usual, they drifted off into their own compelling lives, Constance and Vera to the nursery, where Constance liked to observe Caro (“The infant is primitive”), Hector to his motoring magazine, Rhona and Francis to their vivarium, and now Lila into her whisky and her vague, unfocused sorrow.

Janet now realised that, inconceivable as it seemed to her, life at Auchnasaugh had moved on without her. Her absence had made no difference. But without Auchnasaugh she had been maimed, deprived of her identity, living in two dimensions only.

At Christmas, Janet read, as she always did, in the village church. She read from Isaiah, “The wilderness and the solitary place shall be glad for them…” and Francis sang “O for the wings of a dove.” Every year this miracle occurred; cynical, unkind, freckled Francis stood there, his eyes piously raised to the ceiling, and, by the beauty of his voice, transported her to that shadowed chasm where the restless dove fluttered and soared, searching, driven by its tragic quest for something it would never find, something which perhaps did not exist. Even the village women were moved; with brightening eyes they leant forward for a moment, their chapped hands gripping the pew front. This year, however, as he sang “In the wilderness, build me a nest,” his voice suddenly swooped downwards as though a gramophone needle had stuck and skidded. “And remain there, forever at rest” emerged in a jolting, husky baritone. With icy self-control he sang on, and God rewarded him by restoring his soprano until the end of the service.

“Never again,” he boomed in his new voice as he and Janet trudged homeward through the snow. The others had gone ahead in the car; Rhona was excused from walking because she would be so helpful with preparations for the festive meal. “Never again. This, Janet, is the onset of manhood. I shall grow a beard and keep birds in it, like Edward Lear.” For a moment Janet felt sorry for him. But only for a moment. At the top of the drive his labrador came to meet them. She wallowed joyously in the deep drifts, tunnelled out, flicking the powdery white off her muzzle, then swaggered up, ducking and bowing. “O Celia,” said Francis. “What a seal you are!” He hugged her. Watching him, Janet felt again that odd flicker of pity. How he loved his dog! How he loved his cacti and his slow-worm! Did he love anything else? She thought not.