d the top, the little colour that the fire had restored to the man's face had drained away again. lucy led him into the smaller bedroom. he collapsed onto the bed.

lucy arranged the blankets over him, tucked him in and left the room, closing the door quietly.

relief washed over faber in a tidal wave. for the last few minutes, the effort of self-control had been superhuman. he felt limp, defeated, and ill.

after the front door had opened, he had allowed himself to collapse for a while. the danger had come when the beautiful girl had started to undress him, and he had remembered the can of film taped to his chest. dealing with that had restored his alertness for a while. he had also been afraid they might call for an ambulance, but that had not been mentioned; perhaps the island was too small to have a hospital. at least he was not on the mainland; there it would have been impossible to prevent the reporting of the shipwreck. however, the trend of the husband's questions had indicated that no report would be made immediately.

faber had no energy to speculate about problems further ahead. he seemed to be safe for the time being, and that was as far as he could go. in the meantime he was warm and dry and alive, and the bed was soft.

he turned over, reconnoitring the room: door, window, chimney. the habit of caution survived everything but death itself. the walls were pink, as if the couple had hoped for a baby girl. there was a train set and a great many picture books on the floor. it was a safe, domestic place; a home. he was a wolf in a sheepfold. a lame wolf.

he closed his eyes. despite his exhaustion, he had to force himself to relax, muscle by muscle. gradually his head emptied of thought and he slept.

lucy tasted the porridge, and added another pinch of salt. they had got to like it the way tom made it, the scots way, without sugar. she would never go back to making sweet porridge, even when sugar became plentiful and unrationed again. it was funny how you got used to things when you had to: brown bread and margarine and salt porridge.

she ladled it out and the family sat down to breakfast. jo had lots of milk to cool his. david ate vast quantities these days, without getting fat: it was the outdoor life. she looked at his hands on the table. they were rough and permanently brown, the hands of a manual worker. she had noticed the stranger's hands: his fingers were long, the skin white under the blood and the bruising. he was unaccustomed to the abrasive work of crewing a boat.

"you won't get much done today," lucy said. "the storm looks like it's staying."

"makes no difference. sheep still have to be cared for, whatever the weather."

"where will you be?"

"tom's end. i'll go up there in the jeep."

jo said, "can i come?"

"not today," lucy told him. "it's too wet and cold."

"but i don't like the man."

lucy smiled. "don't be silly. he won't do us any harm. he's almost too ill to move."

"who is he?"

"we don't know his name. he's been shipwrecked, and we have to look after him until he's well enough to go back to the mainland. he's a very nice man."