In the mornings he awoke early, just as the sun began to lighten the sky, chasing away the last of the night that in this, the month of April, left behind it a low-lying mist. Slippers on his feet and housecoat wrapped tightly around him, he would pad quietly along the carpeted upstairs hallway to the toilet, which was always cool and drafty no matter the season. There he would shave his face with the old straight razor that had been sharpened so often that its blade was no wider than the thickness of a pencil. He no longer used cake soap, but perfumed foam from a can. His teeth he brushed with powder that the chemist in the village ordered specially. He didn't much like paste, though he kept a tube in the mirrored cabinet above the sink against the eventuality that the powder became unavailable, as had happened with most things he'd grown accustomed to. Afterward, he would dress: white string vest, flannel trousers that had lost their crease, blue collared shirt, the knitted waistcoat that Pippa had made for him the winter before she died, and gabardine jacket frayed at the cuffs. The waistcoat had gone shabby, the wool slack, and where the stitches had let loose he'd done his best to darn them, though the result was a puckered patchwork of mending.

Then he would walk, wellingtons on his feet: down the drive and over the road, where he climbed the ladder set across the stone wall, and on through the field opposite the farmhouse. It was a good field that drained naturally toward the woods at its bottom. A path there followed through the trees, mostly beechnuts and elms, then ran alongside a river for a mile before turning back on itself and leading once again to the field.

He'd taken this walk every morning for longer than he cared to remember. Had taken it even when this field, and those surrounding it, had belonged to the farm, and when doing so meant having to put off the chores that needed tending. Over the years a collection of dogs had accompanied him. There'd been setters and spaniels, and a skittish terrier that one day jumped into the river and, having gained the far shore, ran off never to be seen again. The dog he recalled most fondly was the last: Duchess, a Labrador retriever bitch that always dragged a stick along with her wherever she went. When, the preceding autumn, she'd been run down by a red Mondeo in the road out front of the farmhouse, he determined that there should be no more after her. He was too old for a new pup, and too set in his ways to take on a stray from the RSPCA. Rather, he resigned himself to walking alone.

Making his way back up the slope toward the stone fence, he thought what a shame it was that the field had gone unused for so long. Ten years it had been this way, ever since he had sold off the farm's acreage to developers. It was meant to have been turned into a golf course, but the work was never begun. He figured that there must have been trouble with the Ramblers' Society, who no doubt laid claim to the ancient footpath that cut across the two fields above the farmhouse.

He was thinking of this, and about how he was happy that the golf course had not been built, when he took the first rung of the ladder. Then something stopped him: a dark-clad figure standing out front of the farmhouse, face pressed up against the window that gave onto the lounge, hands cupped at the side of the head, so as to get a clear view inside.

He lowered himself back down the ladder and ducked behind the wall. Part of him had been expecting this for some time now, living on his own so far from the village. He was glad he was out of the house; the thought of being done violence terrified him.

He squatted in the wet grass and waited for the sound of shattering glass. How long, he wondered, did it take to burgle a house? Ten minutes? More? These people knew exactly what they were after. Light fare: silver, jewellery, old-age benefit kept in a jar on the countertop, mementos and picture frames that could be pawned in the city. In and out quickly so as not to get caught. That was, of course, unless the intent was merely to do him harm, in which case he would have to remain hidden for some time longer.

It started to rain: a thin drizzle, a cold mist that settled over him like a damp veil. Sitting in the wet grass aggravated his sciatica, and soon the pain shooting down his leg became too much to bear. He stood to stretch it out, and when he did so he glanced over the wall again and saw that the burglar was no longer at the window, but was sitting now on his front doorstep, face in hands, looking altogether pathetic. The sight gave him nerve. He climbed over the ladder and crossed the road. As he came up the drive, though, he began to doubt his impulse and considered that this might have simply been a ploy to get him out into the open where he could be more easily attacked. As he drew near, the stranger raised her head and revealed a face streaked with blue mascara.

“What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?” he demanded, with more force than he had expected.
“Do you live here?” the woman asked, her voice thick from crying.
“I do,” he said, struggling now to keep up his tone. “And I want to know what you think you're playing at?”
She did not reply, just dropped her head again into her hands.

He stood at the stove and heated a tin of beef stew, stirring it more than was necessary. She sat at the table behind him, hands wrapped tightly around her mug of tea, her face tipped forward into the rising steam. Every so often he moved to the sideboard on the pretense of arranging the crockery or cutting brea or setting out the salt and pepper so that he might steal another look at her. She still wore her dark blue anorak, wet with rain and dripping on the floor. Below that, black jeans and scruffy white trainers. She was, he decided, in her mid- to late thirties, possibly even forty, but surely no older. Her hair was short, thick and dark; black almost as Duchess's coat, with no hint of grey. He thought it likely dyed, being that it was a shade or two darker than her eyebrows. Her skin contrasted sharply: pale; not alabaster, but ashen. Except for beneath her eyes, where it deepened almost to purple. At first he'd considered this a result of the smudged mascara, but the colour remained even after she'd dried her eyes. Then he recognized it to be the bruising of exhaustion. Pippa's complexion had taken on a similar aspect in her final months, when she began to fear sleep.

He finished buttering two thick slices of bakery bread and set them on a plate. Then he turned off the gas ring and removed the pot from the stove-top. As he portioned the stew into bowls, he made certain that the extra ladle went into his own. He placed a bowl before her, and she mumbled a thank you but did not look up from the table. She appeared wary of him, of his generosity, though he could see no good reason why. If anyone should be uncomfortable, he felt it should be himself. He was the one who had taken a stranger, a peeper, quite possibly a person bent on criminal intent, into his home. Who was to say she did not have a partner lurking about outside, awaiting the signal to burst through the door and batter him senseless? Though he had to admit, the likelihood seemed remote. To look at her, she seemed more apt to do harm to herself than to him.

“It's all right, is it?” he asked, sitting opposite her as she greedily spooned the stew into her mouth.
She glanced up quickly, somewhat embarrassed as she raised a hand to her lips to stifle a small belch.
“Yes, thank you,” she said, averting her eyes again. “I'm sorry. My manners. It's just that I'm so very hungry. I've not eaten since the day before yesterday.”
“That's quite a while,” he said, carefully lifting a spoonful of stew and blowing on it before eating.
“I'd a cheese and pickle sandwich,” she offered. “From a machine at Derby Station.”
“Derby's a long way from here.”
“Yes,” she said and continued eating.

Her name was Marion. She was married. Her husband was in London, but of that she would say no more. She'd left two weeks before. A coach from Victoria Station had taken her to Torquay, where she'd stayed in a small seaside hotel until her money ran short. With her remaining pounds, she purchased a one-way rail ticket as far as Derby. After Derby, she walked. As for reasons, she did not offer any, and he did not press. One further piece of information did, however, come to light, though she remained unaware of it. He perceived it in her voice; it was not the words she spoke, but the manner in which they were spoken. There was a sharpness to her vowels that she could not quite hide. Her borrowed English inflections could not completely conceal her original accent. In her voice he recognized himself: that slow progression in his speech patterns that over time made his tongue all but indistinguishable from those he lived among. Only a keen ear could discern his foreignness any more, as his keen ear had discerned hers. But he said nothing to her of this, not wishing to establish a confidence.

When she finished eating, he gathered their bowls and rinsed them in the sink. Outside the skies had opened and heavy raindrops streaked the kitchen window. He began to consider how he might broach the subject of her leaving. Her presence unsettled him and he distrusted her story. That she'd so easily admitted to having no money made him suspicious. But when he turned back to the table he found that she'd fallen asleep, sitting upright in the chair. Her head drooped forward; she was snoring softly. He looked out the window again. Already the rain was forming into puddles on the drive.

He walked around the table and gently nudged her shoulder. She looked up at him in alarm.

“You seem rather worn out,” he said, trying not to sound too concerned. “If you'd like, you can rest here a while before carrying on your way.”
“That's very kind of you,” she said, smiling for the first time. “Only if it's not too much trouble.”

He led her upstairs to the guest room. It was the room in which Pippa's mother had stayed until he and Pippa moved her into the nursing home. At one time they'd imagined it would become a nursery.

“It might be a little musty,” he said. “You may want to open a window.”
“I'm sure it will be fine,” she replied. She closed the door behind her.