Kropotkin sees the lead in her hand, and understanding its promise he leaps at her, so ecstatic that she swallows her fear. It is not a proper fear, it has no particular object, it is just a vague dread of what might be, could be, outside the walls. She fumbles to attach the lead to Potkins’s collar, lost in the curly hair on his neck. It is a fiddly thing, a metal thing that is hard against her fingers. ‘Stay still Potkins!’ she says. Oh, it is so difficult to bend these days. ‘Artie,’ she calls, for what is she doing struggling like this when he is perfectly capable? And then she remembers. Artie is out on his allotment. Why is it so hard to remember? As soon as Kropotkin is attached he begins to pull. He pulls her down the passage and out onto the front path, and almost pulls her over. He pulls one way; she had thought to go the other. ‘Potty! You bad boy!’ she gasps, but he strains his plump wagging body forward regardless and she gives in, stumbles after him. She cannot remember the last time she went out alone, without Arthur to lean upon.
