Madeleine finished dressing by the open window, looking down onto the garden. It was not yet seven, but she knew that the day was going to be hot, cloudless and unchanging, because of the vivid, almost unnatural green of the trees on the far edge of the dew-damp lawn. Nothing moved anywhere – except a blackbird, whose tail pitched like a see-saw as it alighted on a stone in the Flemish garden.

She paused, her hairbrush threaded into her dark, soft hair. The Flemish garden! It was bright yellow with charlock. Wykham should have tidied it – there were things that he had undertaken to do at weekends, and during his vacations from the law school – but he had not done so. There were, in fact, other things that he had not done.

He lay now, behind her in the room, in the bed nearest the wall. He still slept.

She felt suddenly despondent, although it was so early in the day. She often felt this nowadays, losing, as she did so, the glory of these summer mornings. Such small things, too, sent her skimming down. To keep the seven of them going – herself and Wykham, the three children, and the two old ladies, Wykham’s mother and her mother, whose contributions barely covered the rent – allowed no chance for anyone to slip up on their job. If anyone did that, she could not then carry on with hers, and it was by her work that they lived. Including Wykham. His state grant on leaving the Army barely covered his expenses in London, where he was studying for the Bar.

This last week he had been on vacation, and had spent it reading in his 'study’, the old morning-room – was he reading law books or those green and white paperbacks which later she found imbedded in dust in the garbage-bin? – or visiting in the neighbourhood, which was remote enough to contain still a few of the orthodox, but ruined, and beginning to be faintly ridiculous, gentry, who made him feel – as he was handed a glass of brandy by a white-haired squire resembling his late father – that he counted somewhere in the world, that there was a place still for his 'type’. How he enjoyed this, Madeleine thought, softening. At those times, he would become vivid and alive, almost visibly becoming heavier – he was thin – and looking handsome in an old-fashioned way. She turned from the window and finished doing her hair. That was the sort of life Wykham ought always to live. He ought to have been born a hundred years before.

Her helplessness returned. She leaned one hand on the window-sill, her long, slim body twisted and drooping.

But then she thought of the book she was working on. Last week it had taken a new, interesting turn. It had come strongly to life. Her spirits rose. Those two and a half hours in the afternoon, when the children were at school, and the two old ladies, the mothers-in-law, were withdrawn, resting in their bedrooms, were hers – hers for herself. Some of the joy of those hours now came to her. Her oval, nearly beautiful face – it had a small twist to it, so that the centre of her slightly pointed chin was not in line with the middle of her forehead – which, when first she had gone to the mirror, had been pinched and pale, was now filled out and glowing. She could carry on – the family was secure – if she were certain of those two and a half precious hours.

She went out onto the landing. It seemed very empty, and was bright, whitely bright, as if in some way it had been gutted by the night. She went into the children’s rooms. Only the younger boy was still asleep. Robert and Jenny were already sitting up in bed, looking at books. She told them to get up and dress. She then went downstairs to the large, cool kitchen, let out the tortoiseshell cat, lit the Calor stove, and put on the kettle. The daylight grew stronger, less ethereal and exquisite; the ordinary day proceeded to arrive. A tractor began to climb, as if in pain, up the short hill, which rose beyond the edge of the garden.

Madeleine then thought of Beryl, her twenty-year-old help from two miles away down the valley. At half-past eight she would come, as fresh-cheeked as if she had collected dew on the way, on her bicycle, and with her fair hair crisp and shining, and scarcely out of place. Madeleine thought of her with a gratitude, deep and tender, like love. It was love. For how could she have managed without her? And she was always capable, willing, reliable. She seemed to like working out here at the White House – this old half-mansion among the untidy, farming acres.

As Madeleine made toast and fried the bacon, she heard her mother, Mrs Grinling, coming down the stairs – slowly, because of her rheumatics – to help. The tractor now turned at the bottom of the hill for a second ascent. What had the farmer planned for this morning, out there? Madeleine wondered, idly. It was too early for hay-making. Could it be ploughing? She scraped fat into the frying-pan and went and joined her mother in the dining-room. Mrs Grinling always laid the breakfast-table, but slowly and painfully, becaus of her stiff joints. The first child, Jenny, now came downstairs.

During the meal, the youngest, Timothy, spilt his milk; Jenny was gay and too talkative – she was taking anemones to her form-mistress, with whom she was in love. Robert ate his bacon contentedly. Thank goodness, Madeleine thought, they could all now dress themselves. But what, she wondered, would their rooms be like?

Afterwards, she and the old, white-haired lady watched them ride off on their bicycles down the long, white, empty road. There was little traffic in that part of the world, even in the small country town containing the school, so that they could be fairly trusted. The two women then returned to the house – Mrs Grinling to the dining-room for her last, private cup of tea and a brief look at her son-in-law’s newspaper, and Madeleine to the kitchen. The warm May wind came soothingly, freshly, through the window – open – above the stone sink. She would have liked to do nothing more in the house all that day, but to have gone out into the garden and to have sat under the beech trees, thinking about, and working out, her novel. But she had still much to do, to get through. Her next job was to prepare breakfast for the other old lady, Mrs Filmer, Wykham’s mother.

She took it, with a letter, into the downstairs bedroom, which had once been the drawing-room of the house, and had an ornate, moulded ceiling. Mrs Filmer had furnished it with large, late-Georgian furniture from the country house where she had been born. The old lady, her hair a faint blue-white, in neat, flat waves under an invisible hair-net, was sitting up in her mahogany bed, holding in readiness a silver paper-knife.

' Good morning, my dear’, she said, brightly, 'I hope you slept well, and that the children have gone off safely.’ She used the same words every morning.

' Yes, thank you, mama,’ Madeleine answered, as usual.

She drew back the brocade curtains. On the path under the window a tricycle lay on its side over a crushed white, lidless shoe-box and some old tennis balls. She ought to have put them away last night, and not left it to the children. On this side of the house, the garden was even more neglected. Her despondency returned. If only Wykham would fulfil his promises! She leaned on the window-sill, and looked through the foliage of the trees, at the cornfield beyond. Why, she mused, had this large white house been built right out here, in the first place? Whose vision had started it all off? They had heard of it – to let cheap – through an ex-Army friend of Wykham’s. And how enormous it was! The rooms had been designed for large house-parties, even balls: and yet it belonged to no especial period. She wondered how long they would be able to afford to live here. Her heaviness increased.

But once more she remembered her work, and the solace it brought her – as well as the money it earned. Again, she grew cheerful. Today she would work out in the conservatory, instead of, as was customary, in the dining-room. No one ever went there. She would be undisturbed. And the trees, having grown up round it, cooled it off. She would use the white painted bamboo table, and leave the door open so that, from time to time, she could look out onto the garden.

She turned back to her mother-in-law, whom she had almost forgotten.

The old lady smiled brilliantly, and said charmingly, but without sincerity – she was already returning to her letter – as she left the room: 'Now dear, you’re to let me know if I can do anything to help you.’

Out in the sunny kitchen, Madeleine found Beryl putting on her snow-white overall. She was, as Madeleine had expected to see her, fresh, cheerful, neat – even elegant. She lived with her grandmother in a brick cottage beside the canal, in the nearby town.

' Good morning, Mrs Filmer.’ Beryl’s eyes were admiring and kind.

Together they cleared the breakfast-table – except for Wykham’s things, which were left for him to enjoy peacefully. While on vacation, he never came down before ten. Beryl then started the washing-up, while Madeleine went upstairs to tidy the children’s rooms. Passing Wykham’s and her bedroom, she went in. He lay on his back, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. He was unusually good-looking, with a square jaw, deep-set blue eyes, and black, curly hair. He smiled at her, showing his flawless teeth.

She felt brighter. When he greeted her like this, she always felt warmed, soothed.
But then, through the window, as she turned her head, she saw once more the charlock choking the Flemish garden. She thought desperately: What a pity he has not cleared it, as he promised.

' I suppose I had better get up,’ he muttered, feeling that she had accused him of lying in bed.

' And I must get on with my housework,’ she said, flatly, going to the door.

He sat up and scratched his back with his thumbs, under his striped pyjama jacket. As she passed him she drew her hand lightly over his hair. He caught at her wrist, smiling.

She went to the children’s rooms. As she had expected, they were in vivid, elemental disorder. The sun poured over them through the enormous square windows. Each child seemed to have left something of its own personality in all three rooms. Particularly Jenny. Madeleine could almost hear her high, eager and faintly irritating voice, as she went in. How unconcerned they all were by their parents’ struggle to feed and educate them! She collected up their soiled underclothing. Tomorrow she and Beryl would have a big wash-day. She then ran the Ewbank over the threadbare, almost paper-thin Oriental rugs, which Wykham’s mother had once given them.

When, finally, she went downstairs, Beryl was already preparing the lunch. Peeled potatoes lay, transparent-looking, in a bowl of water; cabbage leaves glistened under the tap. Beryl had also thoroughly 'done out’ the dining-room, the hall, and the drawing-room – where Mrs Grinling now sat at the desk, writing a letter. Old Mrs Filmer had not yet appeared. She did not usually arrive until lunchtime. Wykham must have gone already to his study.

Madeleine took a basket, and went out into the garden, to pick rhubarb, and a lettuce for salad. While out there she would transplant some of the young lettuces from the frame. She wished that Wykham could have been out there with her, that they could have had a little time alone together, as in the old days. But it would not have been right: she must not ask for it. She must do nothing to prevent him from one day getting to the Bar.

Wykham came and stood at the french window of the study, with his hands in his pockets. He found it almost impossible to concentrate these bright mornings. He wanted to go over again to see Colonel Clavering, at Place House. Would Madeleine mind; would the Colonel be in? He watched the white butterflies fluttering above the charlock in the Flemish garden. It was his mother who had called it the 'Flemish’ garden. Very like her. Such big ideas still, when for so long she had possessed nothing more impressive than a downstairs bed-sitting-room.

He supposed, he thought idly, that he ought to have cleared out that charlock weeks ago. Now that he remembered, hadn’t he promised Madeleine that he would do so?

At twelve, Madeleine returned to the house. Beryl was rolling the pastry for the rhubarb pie. Together, they built up the lunch; fish for Mrs Filmer, salad for Mrs Grinling; 'solid’ food for Wykham. The children took theirs at school. They worked silently and steadily. The kitchen felt peaceful, industrious. Once, Mrs Grinling came out to the kitchen for water for some flowers. Madeleine and she then laid the table for lunch.

When she heard the one o’clock time signal coming from the library Madeleine untied her apron, and went in there. Both the old ladies were there, trying to make conversation. At all other times of the day, they avoided each other. Wykham, in his new dark-grey flannel suit, was standing up reading aloud the label on a sherry bottle.

' I couldn’t find the brown glasses, darling,’ he said, to Madeleine, 'so I’ve used those.’

He pointed to a brandy glass on the spinet. With dismay, she saw that a ring of sherry had formed on the polished wood, showing white. Could it be removed? she wondered, anxiously.

But suddenly she decided that she would no longer mind so much about things like that. The most important thing was to get lunch over so that she could get to her novel. Was this progress: or was she growing old? She did not know. She sat down.

Wykham raised his glass. 'To all the Filmers,’ he said, smiling. Mrs Grinling tried, with a self-effacing smile, to feel included.

After lunch, Madeleine and Beryl washed up swiftly, for at half-past two, Beryl had to go. They then prepared the children’s tea, spreading it out on the great kitchen table. With every five minutes that passed, Madeleine’s heart lifted: soon she would be working at her book.

At twenty-past two there were still a few small jobs to be done in the kitchen.

' I’ll do them,’ said Beryl. 'You go and get started, Mrs Filmer.’

Madeleine hesitated, but the determined understanding in the girl’s clear eyes destroyed argument. She went to the dining-room, and collected her folder from the window-seat. An idea for the book’s next sequence was already bubbling, like a fountain under pressure: clear images were waiting to be fixed on paper. But she must hurry. She was almost perspiring.

On her way through the hall, she met Wykham, standing, undecided, at the front door.

' Thought I might do a bit in the garden,’ he said, vaguely. He hoped that she would make up his mind for him. He was still wondering whether or not to go over to Colonel Clavering. If he gardened, he would have to change his clothes.

' It’s very hot,’ she said, 'If you do, perhaps you ought to wear a hat.’

He half-barred her way, about to put his arm round her, but she would not stop. At this moment, she could give no more time to anyone.

She walked round the great, pale house – to the conservatory, which looked out onto a deserted part of the garden. The door was jammed. She pushed it hard, and it ground open, scraping over the tiled floor. Inside, it was hot and airless. For thirty years nothing had been cultivated there and the heating grills were rusted through. Entering, she felt as if she had stepped into another, earlier time.

She pulled the bamboo table up to the open door, so that, while working, she could feel the summer air on her bare arms. She sat down swiftly, and opened out her folder.

Wykham decided, in the end, to clear the Flemish garden. He turned up his trousers at the ankles. They’d be all right like that, surely! He then went out to the garage, to fetch a fork. If only he’d tackled the job a fortnight ago, when the ground was softer. Today, he’d probably break the fork.

The garage was crammed. Under a dust-sheet was a car, wheel-less, blocked-up. He had bought it with the idea of one day making it go. On all sides were garden tools and children’s toys. He had to climb over a pile of tomato boxes, to get at the fork.

He then saw Beryl’s bicycle against the wall. Like herself, it was gleaming, bright, new, and he felt a sudden surge of admiration, envy, for her, which came to him now frequently, when he saw her. Whatever she did, she did so well. Success for her seemed certain. He sought for the fork in a group of rusted garden tools.

Just after half-past two, Beryl came out. She had folded up her white overall to put in the bicycle basket. She did not see Wykham deep in the garage, watching her. He kept very still. How fresh and clean she is, he thought. More like a smart den-tist’s assistant, than a house-help.

He half-lent against the covered car, to watch her better. Without meaning to, he moved a bucket.

She started.

' I didn’t know you were there, sir.’

Without speaking, still watching her, he came forward, climbing slowly over the tomato boxes. Again he was thinking: How fresh she is.

She stood, seeing his approach, as if transfixed.

He was now very near her. Suddenly, thoughtlessly, he leaned forward and gently took hold of her wrist. She was surprised, looking at him in the eyes. Slowly and deliberately, he bent and kissed her on the mouth.

She stepped back, her blue eyes steady and reproving.

' No, Mr Filmer,’ she said. 'Not that. I’m not here for that. I’m here to help Mrs Filmer.’

He looked down, foolishly.

' You ought not to do that, you know,’ she went on, as if speaking to a child.

He now spoke quickly: 'I’m extremely sorry. I can’t think what came over me.’

' That’s all right then,’ she answered, stern, still reproving.

Under his thick, rather pale skin he looked hot, awkward. He helped her wheel her bicycle out of the garage. He watched her get up on it.

'Goodbye, sir’.

'Goodbye, Beryl,’ he said.

She rode out into the lane.

He turned back nervously, to get the fork.

He was suddenly deeply worried. Supposing that Beryl, after this, gave notice? What, then, would happen to them? Madeleine depended on Beryl – or else she could not write – and the rest of them, including himself, depended on adeleine, and Madeleine’s writing. He must do nothing, must never do anything that might make Beryl not want to come to the house. He ought to have thought of this before.

And when, he wondered, would he be able to earn enough to support this family of his and Madeleine’s? Fear cut through him. He felt small, young, doomed. During the war he had felt like this sometimes.

He searched among the tools. He had better hurry up and clear the charlock from the Flemish garden.

On the far side of the house, everything was deeply still; the conservatory was enfolded by silence. In that detached, blazing hour after lunch even the birds were withdrawn, not moving, or visible, and the tractor which, all morning, had droned on the hill was now quiet.

Madeleine looked at her manuscript. This next section was going to be the most difficult and involved, and the most significant. How would her two central characters – the man and the woman – come together again? If she could get this next part to go right, the rest would follow. Surely she could do it; surely she had the power? The answer was very near the surface of her mind. She must let her mind go free, so that she could pick it up.

She looked up, letting her gaze wander out on the garden. Her thoughts then left the book and she unexpectedly thought of Wykham and Beryl. She believed that Wykham liked Beryl. He often grew quiet when he joined them in the kitchen, and stood, staring at her, his blue eyes dense and dark. She knew his tendency to admire twenty-year-olds, she thought wryly. Was this likely to grow less, or to develop? she wondered. But out here, she was without anxiety about the idea. She could review it calmly. Yet what would happen if Wykham were to make a pass at Beryl? What would Beryl do? She felt then, almost instantly, as she looked down at the white sheet of paper in front of her, that she had such trust in Beryl, and the girl’s common-sense – that Beryl, apart from her loyalty to her, Madeleine, had some plan in life which would not be deflected by the passing advances of the husband of her employer – that she could not feel anxious about this. It was more likely that Beryl would leave, if Wykham got fresh. She was only out here because she liked it, and liked working for Madeleine. But if Beryl were no longer here to help her, the fat would be on the fire. Then her troubles would really start. For it was almost impossible to get help so far out. What would she do? For a moment, she felt helpless, lost, almost trembling. She wondered how she would be able to go on with her book.

And for all she knew, Wykham might at this very moment be making those passes at Beryl. They were alone on that side of the house. She had left him, half-amorous, at the door. What a risk she had taken!

But she looked again at her work, at the open folder and the white page, and her old strength came back. She always had this – to earn money, to keep the family going. Somehow they would survive by it, whatever happened. Even if Wykham did not get to the Bar for years. Even if Beryl went away. She could cope – if she had this.

She heard then a bee humming against the glass in the depths of the conservatory, and got up to lift it in her handkerchief, and let it go free through the door. It flew off, vivid with relief. She returned to her bamboo chair, and sat down – its creaking was the only sound in the silence. She knew now how to go on; how to link up her characters. Yes, this was right. Such and such would follow; and so on. She took up her pen and began to write swiftly, without pausing.

A beam of sunlight, striking through a break in the clouded glass above her head, struck across the white page.