Jericho [antikvár]

CHAPTER 1 Helen came into the breakfast-room that morning in her familiar way. i was pretty well used to it: dressing-gown, frill of nightdress below, hair pulled back roughly and secured with an elastic band, slippers which she had long since trodden down at heel. She carried a tray with a jar of instant coffee, two mugs, a pot of yoghurt for herself, sugar, milk and a small dish of jam. 'Down early. Couldn't you sleep or something?' She set the tray on the table. I was reading the Guardian, I remember, but just photographed, in a blinding instant, her appearance. The normal morning arrival. I said the kettle had already boiled, so she slopped across, switched it on, stood by the draining-board, hand on the kettle handle. 'You didn't say. Couldn't you sleep?' 'Like a top.' 'Lucky you, I must say, but I didn't exactly turn and toss about. Bloody worn out.' 'Giles all right this morning?' A mild question. I was folding the Guardian more times than was necessary. Anxiety perhaps; the end of a union is always unsettling. 1 ^iiii^ I Su W r''- I p ' ¦ i ' ^ J { I. '.lA ;< i i .M