For her own daughter she felt little either way. She neither loved nor hated her. She felt ambivalent towards her and the ways about her: her presence, how she did her hair or poured the tea. Her daughter was a stranger who moved with a stranger’s mood; a thing that passed and left little trace, unlike her son, for whom she felt a love so crushing she could only watch him, constantly, whether he was there or not. She wondered, sometimes, if it mattered; this black and white way of her heart – but what could she do? There was either feeling, or there wasn’t, and neither force – ambivalence nor adoration – had dissuaded her from duty. She’d fed and bathed them both, divorced their father and sent them away to school as soon as possible. They had grown up. Now she found herself back in the role for which she was made and in which she felt the least and most comfortable – that of looking after her mother. Her mother’s nursing home was in Hampstead. It looked pretty from the outside, a large red brick house on a quiet street, but the inside had been stripped of beauty – it had unfortunate lighting and a lift that didn’t work, Formica tables, single beds and nylon sheets. It was her mother’s just deserts.

She looked at the letter again while the kettle boiled. Coming Tuesday. No need to tell her, better not. I won’t stay long. Shall we lunch beforehand? Say 1pm, usual place? Ian

Better not to tell her for whom? Him? Her? Their mother? Obviously she’d had to tell the nurses – they liked to know the name of every visitor – but she’d made it clear. She’d made it absolutely clear that they weren’t to say a word until she got there. She’d be the one to say, Ian’s here. He’s come to see you. Not the nurses with their incontinent nonsense, spilling it out as though it were something thrilling. No. Finetta would be the one to tell her – perhaps she’d have to make him wait outside the door, but it would be her who’d do the spilling, with care and consideration and just enough distance to duck. Her mother might think her a bloody nuisance, but she wasn’t cruel or stupid. She knew what it all meant. She put the letter back in its envelope, propped it again on the shelf beside her notebook and got her cup and saucer from the cupboard.