A number between one and twenty, I say. I whisper twelve into Maeve’s ear and she smiles her knowing smile at me. The boys argue about who is going to go first and I suggest Mikey as he was born five minutes before Joey. Joey says that it isn’t fair as he didn’t have a choice when he was born and I look over to Jenny for help but she is just sitting there with her head inclined towards her desk. The raffle is over in a matter of minutes, Mikey guesses correctly on his second turn and then I go and suggest that he split the sausage in two. Jenny says that this is what I should have done in the first place and I thank her for her words of wisdom even though they have come too late. We sit at the table in silence, broken only by Maeve, who brings over a cake that she has baked. I look at the Victoria sponge, it has been slathered with a deep purple icing that looks like something you would see in the Vatican. ‘Goodbye Daddy’ is just about discernible in a dark green icing and I feel tears well up. She goes to so much effort. When Maeve is cutting the cake Jenny goes to her desk and begins moving things about. I ask her to wait, at least until Maeve has finished dishing out the cake, but Jenny asks for her slice to be brought over to her while she works. I feel terrible for Maeve.

I walk over to Jenny’s desk to see what she is working on. There are small piles of curled wood where she has been sharpening her pencils with vigour. I open her sketchpad. The head of the Brother over and over. I wonder if she is punishing me. I think of Picasso’s early childhood sketches, and the variety. The sense of deliberation. She asks me to put the sketchpad down, that she’s working with it. She bends herself at the desk as if she doesn’t realize or care that we’re not designed as human beings to sit like that, that we cannot bend our backs even though we think we can. Hasn’t she ever heard of the Alexander technique?