Why was everything up to her? These two in her drawing room – one she loved, the other she tolerated, but both looking to her to do whatever it was that needed doing: hire servants, run the house, manage court, get Ian back – since when was she mother superior? Since she’d welcomed them into the hall all those years ago, that’s when. Since she’d stood about with Douglas, while Fagus held a chair, and Finetta played hop scotch on the tiles, and Mary held Ian. Since Douglas said can you have them? and she’d said, yes.

“Perhaps we should insist on monthly medical reports,” said Pat.

“Force her hand?” said Joan.

“Make her show her colours.”

“But then she’ll only go and find some quack,” said Joan.

“All the better.” Pat reached behind her for the ashtray.

“Not for Ian.” Joan rested her head again on the back of the armchair.

Douglas sighed, brushed down his trousers and stood up. “All right if I pop up and see him before I go?”

Was this what he’d been like at that ghastly villa, all nonchalance and absence? When he’d handed them over all those years ago, after she’d said, yes, and stood in the hall, and Finetta had played hop scotch on the tiles, he’d said I know you’ll take care of them, as if he knew anything.

She closed her eyes. “Of course, go on up. Although he mayn’t be ready. Nanny is bathing him.” None of them understood. Pat always said she was too involved and Douglas said hardly anything at all.

Enid, 1927

30

Enid, 1927

She’d been ignoring the letters from Miss Barnes; the first one, and all the ones after that, the bills that kept dropping through her door with increasingly frank notes saying we really must have this met, and so on. But another three days of waiting yawned ahead of her, and she’d done every other errand, every shopping list and gas bill, every inventory of the linen cupboard and bulbs that had blown. There was nothing left on the list she kept on the kitchen counter; the one she updated and crossed out every day, she’d done everything except see Fagus.

So she had three days. Plenty of time. She could go down, sort out this ridiculous bill, get away, recover. She took a train to Shoreham, and a taxi cab to Castlemere School. The driver knew where it was; he said he often brought parents down, loaded with trunks and sweets. Enid said, “Can you wait?” and rang the bell.

It was more of a house than a school: not very old, white, pitched-roofed: it looked more like a vicarage. A small woman with neat, bobbed brown hair opened the door.

“I have an appointment with Miss Barnes,” said Enid.

“I’m Miss Barnes,” said the woman, holding out her hand.