Ian said, “I got on the train that term, my last year at school. Joan told me on the platform as I was leaving. I’d joked with her, we always had this joke between us – not long now, and we both knew I wasn’t talking about Eton, but she’d hugged me and said, Oh no, darling. It’s over. She offered me a price. It was only when I pressed that she told me. £500. I sat on that train and thought at least I know what I’m worth.”

Of course she’d told him. Of course she had.

“You stayed away,” said Enid.

“You couldn’t have expected me to do different. What mother sells her child? What mother kidnaps? What mother pops her head round the door and says, your brother’s dead. Those were your exact words—” he looked quickly at Finetta, “—weren’t they, Mop? Your brother’s dead and then you shut the door again and carried on parcelling me about for another seven years.”

Finetta said, “We should leave.”

Ian swapped the portrait to his other hand. “Do you know what Joan said before she died? She said, I’m sorry we made such a hash of it, a hash. As if we, me, all of us, were just a bit of a mistake.”

Enid gripped her stick with both hands. “She’s dead?”

He looked from Finetta to Enid. “Of course she is. Four years ago.”

Finetta said, “I didn’t think she needed to know.”

Enid thumped her stick on the carpet. “I needed to know.”

“And now you do. I didn’t come here to accuse you. I don’t want anything to do with you at all. I just came for this.”

“The portrait?” said Enid.

“And in any case,” he put his other hand in his pocket, “what can I accuse you of that you don’t already know yourself? I’m glad I got away. At least Joan loved me.”

“I loved you.”

“You didn’t love anyone.”

“I loved Fagus,” Enid cried.

“And he died and no one went to his funeral.”

“I want to see it.”

“His grave?”

“Of course, his grave.”

“Well you can’t.”

“You don’t know where it is?”

“Oh, I know where it is. I’ve got the plot number; only it’s not there any more. It was built over. Flats apparently. Joan told me.”

“Flats?”

“Years ago.” He tucked the portrait under his arm. “I’m glad you kept hold of this. Perhaps I’ve doubled in value since then too.”

Finetta opened the door. “Ian.”

He hadn’t taken his eyes from Enid. He stood before her, this life blood of hers; she needed only one word, or two, to make her cry, to make her breakdown, but instead he said, “I shan’t see you again.”