She loved him, but he was different. She loved him, but he was different. She’d said it to herself again and again, until it felt as if others could hear her. He ran in circles, then set off towards the terrace. Enid followed. From the open nursery window on the top floor she heard the wail of the baby, Finetta, a year old, and this time actually perfect. Her birth had been a matter of hours, a surge, a split and slip; nothing like the hours of torment she’d had with Fagus. Finetta had been so tiny. She still was.

Murrell, the bird-like nanny from their childhood, had been dragged out of retirement for their summer visit and had the baby in her grip. Fagus, she couldn’t cope with. The baby she adored. They all did. There was universal approval of Finetta’s ideal looks and growth. Enid felt she’d churned out a better version, but that’s where her feelings stopped. She had nothing for her, not even milk.

“Morning, you two.” She’d reached Joan and Pat on the terrace.

Pat tried to sit up, failed and lay down again. Joan raised a hand. “Have some coffee.” She was dressed in bloomers and a sweater, as if she’d forgotten to put on a skirt, which she probably had.

“We’re making it palatable with brandy,” added Pat. She looked vaguely for an ashtray, then used the saucer of her cup.

Fagus leant on Joan’s arm. She touched his nose. “How are you this morning?”

“Come to the pond, Dodo?”

Joan groaned and put her arm around him. “I couldn’t move if you paid me, darling.”

He laid his head on her chest. What was it about Joan? Enid watched as she had before, the natural lean and tuck of her son and sister. Babies Joan kept away from, but as soon as Fagus had been able to talk, Joan had opened up and enveloped him like the most comfortable of blankets, the most unabashed of friends. Last summer it had begun, in nonsense conversations: Joan on her knees, hauling out the train set that used to belong to Ivar, or letting Fagus stand on her feet while she played croquet. She paid no mind to his childishness. She treated him exactly as an equal and he loved her for it. He was easy with her. He moved about her as if she were a part of him.

Pat shifted her legs to the side. “Do you want to sit down? You can share my coffee. It’s making my head about ten times worse.”

Enid squinted in the bright light of the sunshine bouncing off the stone. She perched carefully on the end of Pat’s lounger and rested her weight on her arm. Pat passed her a cup. “Watch out for the brandy. I think I’ve overdone it.”