‘I know he’s a spy.’ Lydia bit her lip, telling herself not to rise to the bait. George went on, a note of triumph in his voice: ‘He’s a spy if ever I saw one! You know it, Lydia, but you can’t or won’t admit it!’ ‘That’s enough, Father.’ She tried to concentrate on her sewing, tried to ignore him, tried to pretend that he was not deliberately upsetting her and tried as usual to make allowances for him. The cotton in her needle ran out, and she finished off and reached for the cotton reel to cut another length of thread. From the corner of her eye she saw him glance towards her, his eyes searching her face for any sign that he was reaching her with his accusations. She sighed, praying for patience. He was no longer the father she had loved as a child, but that was not his fault. Four-year-old Adam, sitting between them on the floor with a wooden engine, looked up at her. ‘What is a spy, Mama?’ ‘Nothing,’ Lydia answered, her tone sharper than she’d intended.
