“Everything, you mean.”

“Everyone, everything, what difference does it make? Ian is heir. It doesn’t matter to whom, does it? He needs guidance.”

“He’s four.”

“We didn’t think you were coming back, Enid.”

“Where is he living, Douglas?”

“She stepped in, Enid. I told you. She’s been really marvellous. I just didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’d like to go now.”

He picked up the file and shoved it into his attaché case. The pen rolled onto the floor. “Someone was always going to have to manage it, Enid, and he’s happy with her. They both are. They’ve really settled in quite well. He doesn’t know any different. He won’t remember Cherry Trees at all.”

“You mean me.”

He shoved his cigarette case back in his pocket, the unlit cigarette discarded on the table. “Your mother’s old. She couldn’t carry on. She needed help. What else was Joan going to do? She’s been marvellous. Fagus is settled, and Finetta’s as happy as—”

“I want to see him.”

“You can see him any time you like.” He hurried after her. “There are no visiting times. Miss Barnes is very accommodating, and it will be no problem to arrange—”

“Not Fagus.” They were out on the street. “Get me a cab.” The doorman went into the road and raised his hand.

Douglas grabbed her arm. “You can’t expect everything to have been kept on ice for you, Enid. We were frantic.”

She pulled away from him. “That’s just what Joan said.”

A cab pulled up. She dropped into the back, leaned forward and slammed the door.

Was it then, in the cab from St James’, that she chose revenge over life? Or was it packing up Cherry Trees? Or standing at the railings watching Ian play happily in the gardens of Bryanston Square? She went, when Cherry Trees was sold, when the money had allowed her to buy a tall narrow house in Fulham and the sitting room was crammed with packing cases, straw spilling out onto the floor, her belongings strewn everywhere. She gave up putting things away and walked across the park.

She might not have recognised him if she hadn’t arrived on the corner of George Street at the very moment he came out of the house, his hand held by a nanny. She might have stood at the corner, watching the windows, and not registered a little boy playing in the gardens opposite, not gone to lean against the railings to see him, a toy train in his hand, his teddy on the grass. But she did. She saw his nanny lead him across the road and enter the gardens. She followed at a distance and when they’d shut the gate behind them she leaned against it, her hands gripping the bars. He looked so happy.

Enid, 1926

25

Enid, 1926