After breakfast, I drove up to Trewarren. I was quaking slightly at what I might find, my espadrilles unsteady on the pedals. It was already late morning because Celia had chatted on, with Edward, about their plans. Edward told me that since he worked from home anyway, freelance copywriting being his bread and butter, he could work anywhere, but he felt his playwriting would flourish down here, without the competitive stress of London. And of course there was the Minack Theatre, he'd love to get involved in that. He said they rather fancied Kynance Cove, or the hills beyond, and did I know the villages around there? I did. Maps were instantly produced; pored over. Then, just as I was leaving, Peter came by. He leaped out of a car as I went down the front path and said he was going sailing with friends for a few days, staying at their house along the coast, which I thought was a good idea: getting away.

“Really? I mean, Dad . . .”

"Will be fine, as you know. Now go."

It occurred to me now as I drove up to the house that I'd forgotten to ask exactly where he was going, and with whom, which was most unlike me. But I could text him later. He'd disappeared looking pleased and relieved: hopped back into a crowded car with music blaring. Away they'd sped.

Now, as I walked up to the front door, coming round from the stable yard where I'd parked the car, leaving the trunk open to accommodate the portrait, and avoiding the back in case I ran into Belinda in the kitchen, I thought how changed and different everything was. Already, it seemed to me, the house seemed to exude sadness. Mourning, even. Perhaps it was the silence. No Truffle, opening the front door with her nose and wagging down the front steps. No Ibby and Theo playing Snap on those steps, Truffle scattering their cards as they yelped at her. No Belinda, bustling in from flower arranging at the church and letting everyone know how busy she was. No Tommy and Janey, playing backgammon on the terrace, heads bent competitively, teasing each other, Janey accusing Tommy of cheating because he won so often. And no Roger, bearing down on them, rubbing his hands as he offered them a sharpener, and what did they mean eleven-thirty was a bit early even for them: and then, as they relented, Janey and Roger knocking it back with gusto, Tommy, I knew, sipping it.