Everyone had agreed that Enid was an unfit mother, and Joan, Ian’s rightful guardian. Everyone had agreed that Enid was mad, unsafe, a liability; all except Lord Merrivale, who, twelve years after it had begun, coughed, rustled his papers, and said, I find for Miss Enid Campbell. Her son shall stay with her.

Joan had screamed, and Pat had covered her face with her hands.

“Mother, it’s me.”

She’d gone home to her house of narrow corridors and thought: now what?

“You don’t need to worry.”

Her £41 a month had ceased long ago to meet her bills – Crowther, the house, Peel. She was in debt, and she was penniless.

“I told him not to come.”

She’d written to Joan. That’s right. It had been that way round. She’d written to Joan: Pay off my debts and you can have him. £500 should do it. Here are Crowther’s bills. Send the rest to me.

“He isn’t coming. Can she not hear me?”

Again, in her mind, she saw Ian driving away, the back of his head in the back of her sister’s Rolls as the car eased out of Evelyn Gardens onto the Fulham Road and turned left. After he’d gone, Joan had cut her off. The Augustus John portrait and the files from Castlemere, they’d moved with her as she’d moved in ever-decreasing circles, from Evelyn Gardens to a smaller house in Chelsea, and a smaller one still in Pimlico, and then out of London for good; to Warminster, a workman’s cottage on a dreary cobbled lane, that had had the benefit of being both easy to heat and walking distance to the local First Church of Christ.

“Mother.” The touch on her shoulder made her jolt. She opened her eyes. Finetta was standing over her, smiling, leaning toward her, looking for all the world as if she was doing good.

“What are you doing here?” said Enid. Her eyes and nose watered but her mouth was dry.

“I’ve come for tea, mother,” said Finetta. She held a tin of shortbreads.

“Without Ian?”

“Without him, yes.”

“Why?”

“Why? You told me not to bring him.”

“I did nothing of the sort.”

“But Mother, you telephoned,” said Finetta.

“I did not.”

“She’s been like this all day,” said Mandy.

“Go and get him,” said Enid.

“I can’t,” said Finetta.

“Go and get him this instant.”

“I can’t,” said Finetta again, shaking her head like a mule that didn’t understand plain English.

“I said, get him!” shouted Enid, but it came out weak, the volume broken.

“Enid,” said Mandy.

“Let’s get her to her room,” said Dawn.

Enid, 1964

38

Enid, 1964

A slow ache up the stairs, Mandy’s steadying grip on her arm; Enid was led to her bedroom.

“I’ll sit with her,” said Finetta.

“Take me over there.” Enid pointed at her bed.