"Oh no, oh no, oh no—“ she sobbed into my shoulder. I held her tight. She was trembling and she could barely speak.

"He's fine," I told her quickly. "He's going to be absolutely fine, is already fine," I assured her. I took her shoulders and made her look at me: forced her white, pain-wracked face to believe me. "I swear, Christina, they came and told me ten minutes ago. Tommy got there just in time, there'll be no long-term effects. Plus, Hugo messed it up to a certain extent. A lot of the fumes went in the garage."

"Oh, thank God," she whispered, clutching her mouth with both hands. "But why!" she wailed suddenly, sinking down abruptly in a chair. She raked a hand through her hair in despair. "I mean – I know why, the business obviously, such a worry. Such a mess – he was so concerned, and Tommy's just told me it's got much worse. But why do that, out of the blue?" She turned her incredulous face up to mine, full of horror at the magnitude of the act, the ramifications for her and her children. "Why?" she repeated imploringly.

I did know the answer. But equally, I didn't think it was Ted's fault. He wasn't to know the entire scenario. Wasn't to know the pressure on Hugo, from all quarters; that he might just have delivered the final blow. Luckily Christina meant it more rhetorically and her mind was already racing ahead.

"Have you seen him?" she pleaded. I wanted her to have been the first to see him, but I couldn't lie about this.

"Yes. I have. Briefly. But he's asleep now."

"Oh, thank God. I mean — that he saw someone he loved first, and who loved him."

My eyes filled with tears at her generosity. But it occurred to me that Christina's love for Hugo was like mine. Wholehearted, but different to physical, jealous, sexual love. What we shared was the love of two sisters for a most beloved brother.

“Did he speak?"

I sat down beside her and told her about how he'd kept saying sorry. Sorry-sorry-sorry’. And how tears had poured down his cheeks. They'd poured down mine, too, and Christina's now, as I told her. I told her how he'd said he was so ashamed, but how — in that split second, as he'd opened the door to the woodshed, about to get the mule bike, trays of meat in his hands — suddenly he couldn't see any other way. He'd been overwhelmed by panic. How he'd thrown the pans in the air in despair and raced up to the top barn, far away, where no one went, although, as Hugo had said as I sat there, holding his hand, looking at his yellow, almost jaundiced face, he hadn't at that moment honestly been thinking of anyone else. Not Peter, not Christina, not Ibby and Theo. Just himself.