Janice Rush, who had been Janice Brownlow, the belle of many a flannel dance, was middle-aged now, forty-four and a bit. Her face had lines, not many but clearly the precursors of many. The skin of her neck bore a goose-flesh look, though only when the light fell directly upon it. Her husband, Martin Henry Rush, had married her nineteen years ago, one hot day in August in the church of St Cyril, the church of a south-western suburb. The Reverend Hamblin had conducted the service and a Mr Pryse, St Cyril’s official organist, had played Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring as she walked up the aisle on her father’s arm. Janice Rush thought constantly about the occasion: she had a thing about her wedding day.