In the garden, glossy rhododendrons, blazing acers and a single, spiky-branched monkey-puzzle tree, fostered from seedlings in a new, harsh climate, were further testaments to its connections with the rest of the empire. It was only natural, then, that it should be set slightly apart from the rest of the houses in the small stannary town on the edge of the moor. It was Mr Bradley’s father, Colonel Bradley, who, on inheriting the house from his father, had decided to call it Oakstone – a masculine, solid and, above all, English name, which signified everything he believed in. He died of a massive stroke, which, to his friends at the club, seemed altogether appropriate. The colonel and his wife only ever had one child and, although the fact that the child was a son lessened the stigma, a couple of their standing was really supposed to breed better. Mrs Bradley left life quietly, facelessly, and slipped into obscurity without much fuss and to the inconvenience of no one – something she might have been quite proud of in life.
