Once a year - on Adjutants Day - my father's profile would move along the level of the hedge, invariably resembling his portrait, which hung above the fire. Having passed the window, it would turn in at the gate, and a moment later my father would be sitting at the table with us.

Sometimes my mother sighed. Most of the time, though, she paid no attention, moving the things about on the table. My father took out his pipe and lit it. When it was finished, he put it back in his pocket. Then he got up and walked out the door once more, past the window, along the hedge, and I knew it would be another year before I saw him again.