Fagus moaned into his pillow, patches of damp and streaks of blood stained the white linen. He reached for his head and pulled at the bandage. Gently, Dr Glendower moved his hand away and tucked him under the covers. “If he starts to be sick, then call me immediately, otherwise I’d say get him to eat something – even a biscuit would do. You’d be surprised how many crashes are fixed up with a nice piece of cake. Young boys are very hardy, you know, as I’ve said.”

“But he has been sick,” said Enid.

Dr Glendower gathered his belongings into his bag, the scissors and rolls of bandage, the violet antiseptic he’d smeared over Fagus’ head. “I can’t see that there’s anything more to be done today. Fussing over him won’t help. Mothers tend to worry more than necessary. Nurses need food and sleep too, ma’am. Make sure you get an early night.”

Joan bundled the blood-stained towel under her arm and followed Douglas and the doctor out of the room. Enid was left alone. She listened to their fading footsteps, knowing they’d have some hearty conversation in the hall, when Joan would pretend she hadn’t been as hysterical as Enid, and Douglas would clap the doctor on the back and exchange a look about women. She stared at the lump on the bed and she stared at her hands. A handshake with the devil.

When the door opened again it was Douglas on his own. He stood beside the bed and quickly touched the loose mound of his son’s body that curled beneath the blankets.

“You see?” he said, as if Enid had spoken. “It was just a bloody awful crash.”

But Enid knew better. Enid could only think of holding his writhing, bloodied form for the first time, when he’d been put on her chest and she’d cried with the love that had torn out of her; of cradling him as he grew, before he’d tried to walk, before she’d noticed for the first time that he couldn’t stop falling over, before she’d cried in the bathroom and looked in the mirror practising, practising the words: doctor, his head is too big.

She didn’t want to sleep. She sat up beside his bed, twisting her engagement ring in unconscious rhythm with his breathing, running it over her knuckle and back, her fingers playing over the precious stones. In the early hours she crept from her chair and lay beside him, her body curved into his, her back against the wall.