“And I’m jolly glad,” said Joan. “Imagine if she were allowed to hide him away?”

“Make sure you put that report on file,” said Pat, reclining on the sofa.

“Can we apply to have him stay till he’s better?” said Joan.

“Worth a try,” said Douglas. He refilled his drink and plonked himself in the armchair that used to be her mother’s. Sybil’s retreat to Scotland had lasted; she’d said that she might never come back.

Joan took the armchair on the other side of the hearth. A gin in her hand, she rested her head back, her eyes on the cornicing that ran around the ceiling. This was home forever now – all dreams of flats were gone. Ideas of independence from her family had left with Enid. For a year she’d plunged about in the meeting of the waves; her mother a force to her right, Pat a force to her left, the children the ship she sailed in, as if trying to round the Cape of Good Hope, but being caught in the currents and locked in one place, prevented from sailing anywhere. Her mother’s retreat to Scotland had been a blessing. Pat had moved in for good. Hang the servants, she’d said when Joan had worried. Let them talk, but if they had, Joan hadn’t heard it. The chatter of children had blotted out everything. Perhaps when they were old, and this was over, when Ian was safely on his way into adult life, she’d sell this place and take up residence in the apartments on Cumberland Place. They’d have proper privacy there. Who needed an enormous house and far too many staff to manage? Tradesmen saw the address and doubled their prices. But none of this could be dealt with until Enid was dealt with.

It took up every waking hour, and most of her nights too. When she couldn’t sleep, she plotted – undoing and rearranging problems in her mind, worrying the padlock that kept her shut out from having it over with. Why couldn’t the courts hurry up? Should she try writing to her? What if she tried the same trick and refused to send him back? Then morning would come and Pat would tell her to see sense. Over breakfast she’d give her a million reasons why rational and sanity were the weapons in her hands, that she mustn’t throw them away, do something rash, regret it.

She sighed, took a slug of her gin and said, “I’ll wire McKinley.”

“He should stay at least a week,” said Pat.

“Until he’s better,” said Douglas.