As dark as the void of Space, MCC’s extraordinary eyes, in flight from Mrs Povey’s, glanced up the stairwell and caught sight of Ailsa curled up behind the banister. ‘Go to bed, Ailsa,’ he said, and Mrs Povey swivelled angrily in her chair. ‘Go to bed, Ailsa.’ Ailsa withdrew. Below her, after a scurry of cleared coffee-cups, the clicking of light switches, the creak of stairs and the rattle of the great brass bed in the shop, the house settled into silence but for the ticking of the handless clock and the clicking of the basketware chairs. Next morning, MCC was up and about early. He borrowed a coat that had once belonged to Mr Povey and went to the laundrette to wash his clothes. It was a bright spring day — the last day of April — and he came back sparkling white, his jacket hooked on one finger over his shoulder. Mrs Povey had washed his clothes often, overnight, but never before had the grass stains entirely disappeared from his knees or his shirt dazzled so pavilion-white.
