Enid’s gaze drifted around the room. She’d brought the armchairs from Cherry Trees and the tea table and drinks bureau. Her sitting room in Fulham looked like the one in Cherry Trees had been picked up and squashed and suspended three flights above the earth. Only one of the rugs had fitted, and even it didn’t fit terribly well: it flipped up against the far wall. Douglas would have done something about it. He was always rather good at fixing things. He’d have filled the drinks bureau too. She’d got as far as buying sherry.

He’d agreed to a divorce on her terms. She’d heard from him not long ago. She hadn’t been able to understand it. She’d taken the paperwork to Crowther. “Does this mean there’s no row?”

“The petition is from your sister.”

“But if I sign this I have custody?”

“As I say—”

“But why is he doing this? Doesn’t he want them?”

“I suspect he wants a divorce more.”

“Then she won’t have a case.”

“She’s petitioning for custody only of her heir. It is a different case entirely to that of your marriage, madam.”

“I thought he was joint petitioner.”

“He is – in other words, he is supporting your sister’s case while extracting himself from the firing line.”

That was Douglas all over, but she’d been shocked at how she’d felt the day the decree absolute dropped through her letter box. She hadn’t loved him, she hadn’t wanted him; he certainly didn’t want her, and yet she’d wavered in the hall, the envelope discarded, the papers in her hand. She’d looked at it and felt small. At least he’d changed the names on their bank accounts. Her allowance, the allowance that used to run Cherry Trees, all £41 a month, still arrived at Coutts & Co, but it was hers.

“May I get down, Mamma?” Finetta had eaten half a sandwich.

“Yes.” Enid crossed her legs the other way and touched the letter in the pocket of her skirt. Nothing on Finetta’s face betrayed it. Enid the Brute. Enid the Brute. “You can go to your room.” Of course she was doing it to pally up to Joan, but still, these thoughts were like seeds, planted and growing in her daughter’s mind, with no way of plucking them out. All she could do was keep Finetta here and hope they died away. She wasn’t a brute; she was desperate. She didn’t know what to do with any of them. If you didn’t know what to do with a child, everyone knew you sent it to its room.