He spoke to Dawn who clattered in after him with a tea trolley. “Let me.” He lifted an end off the rucked corner of the rug and wheeled it to a stop beside the armchairs. The cups clinked, the teapot spilled a drop from its spout, and Dawn giggled like a schoolgirl.

Finetta said, “You came.”

Like a statement from an imbecile. Of course he’d come. She’d asked him to.

“I decided I should. Hello, Mother.” He came over to her.

“Shall I put that aside for you?” Finetta reached for the file on Enid’s lap.

“Have you come to tell me?” Enid said to Ian.

Finetta handed Enid her stick. “Come and have tea.”

“Is that the Augustus John?” Ian took Enid’s arm as if he’d seen her yesterday. Ivar’s height and slim build. He smelled of expensive soap and lavender; his hands were soft.

Finetta fussed about, being mother, handing out cups. He looked around for a third chair, took the one from the window and put it beside the tea things, then sat in the other armchair and rested his ankle on his knee. Douglas but blonder, her eyes, Ivar’s nose.

Enid crossed her ankles carefully to one side, her stick, propped beside her. “And are you keen on art?”

“Very.”

“Do you collect?”

“Just started.”

She couldn’t take her eyes from him. “I don’t suppose it’s of worth.” He was a mirage, another ghost.

He went over to her bed and picked it up. “I’d say that would fetch at least £500. Wouldn’t you, Mop?”

Finetta opened the shortbreads. “I wouldn’t know.”

“I heard you kept it in a cupboard.” He sat again, looking at Enid, the portrait on his lap.

Enid balanced the cup and saucer carefully on her knee. Finetta held out the plate of biscuits. Enid took one and put it down on the side of her saucer where it threatened to fall, so she put the whole lot on the table. She had to lean forward. It took all her strength.

Ian said, “I might have it.”

Enid replied, “I don’t have it.”

“He’s talking about the portrait, Mother,” said Finetta.

“The portrait?”

Ian said, “If you don’t mind.”

Enid said, “I don’t mind about the portrait.”

“Well I don’t want it,” said Finetta, helping Ian to milk.

“You’re very welcome to it,” said Enid. “Please do have it.” She played her hand over her ring, then slipped it from her finger. “This was your grandmother’s.” She put it on the table.

“Are you giving that to Ian, too?” said Finetta.

“If he wants it,” said Enid.

Ian stood up, took the ring, and put it in his pocket. “I shan’t keep you any longer.”