She’d watched mothers at summer fairs all summer long, and thought I can do that. She’d watched them chase their children across the grass, seen the happiness in their faces, the ease with which they held each other, and thought it can’t be that hard.

But at night she’d lain awake, unable to sleep, a light flickering on and off in the darkest recesses of her mind, keeping her awake; a signal of something feared, a tail she half chased but it escaped her. There was a letter, drifting like a magic carpet, to Douglas, somewhere, wherever he was, and whenever she thought of it she heard a voice, saw the imprint of that half-chased tail, that thought that began you? and left her hanging. Yet it was too late. She’d made her decision. The letter was on its way.

She picked up the churns. They knocked against her shins, and a splash of milk slopped onto the grass. Of course she could do it. She was a mother. She’d given birth three times, for goodness’ sake. All that fuss. She’d been tired, that was all. She’d been fractious. She was recovered now.

The post boy, mailbag jumping on his back, ran the last steps. He reached the house as she did – he to the front door, she to the rear, and in the darkest recesses of her mind the light flickered on and off.

In the scullery, she put the churns down. Making butter was something she’d become rather good at. She set to with spoons and lids, pouring and sieving. It took her an hour at least, and by the time she’d placed two earthenware pots in the cold store, she stank of milk, her arms were tired, and her hands sore.

In the adjoining room, the long wooden table was stacked with breakfast bowls of leftover porridge and dirty spoons. It wasn’t her turn to wash up, she knew that. She filled the kettle and heaved it with two hands onto the stove. It was only after she’d refilled the burner with logs that she noticed a fat brown envelope, lying on the table, addressed to her. With concentrated slowness, she washed her hands.

Enid,

You can have your divorce. My terms are custody of the children. Please find all necessary paperwork enclosed.

Yours etc,

Douglas.

She put her feet up on the rungs of the chair beside her.

When she pulled out the rest of the papers she found receipts from a hotel in St James’, and an affidavit from the doorman, reporting on Mr. Anstruther’s comings and goings with a woman called Miss Wormald. They’d been seen on many occasions, entering the building in the evening and emerging together the next day. Beneath the receipts were a stack of forms from his lawyers, asking her to sign here and here.