“Women like her shouldn’t have children,” said Joan.

“As opposed to women like us?”

“I’d be a good mother.”

“You’ve sense, anyway.”

“He says Fagus managed to walk a few steps last week. They got him out into the garden.”

“Good old Spring.”

“And Enid’s ballooning. He says she’s the size of a house. I can’t imagine it.”

“It must be dreadful.”

“Unimaginable. Imagine having to go through it.”

“I’d really rather not. It’s only further proof that God doesn’t love us after all. Is there any more gin?”

Joan shook the bottle beside her. “None. I’ll make coffee.” But she didn’t move. She was too tired; not from the antics of the night before, or the day, but from the letter. Douglas’ news always depressed her – there was so much he didn’t say. She rubbed her hands over her face. “Can’t we stay another night?”

“I was rather feeling like theatre.”

“Tonight? I thought we had cards.” Cards with the Forsythes, as usual. No one went to the theatre on a Wednesday.

“Blow cards. I feel like people.”

Joan didn’t feel like anything. “He goes on and on about the cherry blossom and how darling the sparrows look, and hardly says a thing about her. He’s like Mr. Rochester without the frown – all jolly while this shadow lurks over his shoulder and empties every page. God, I wish she wasn’t having another.”

“Then it would have to be you.”

“Why does it have to be either of us? There’s nothing wrong with Finetta.”

“Except she’s a girl.”

“I’m a girl.”

“And you’re delicious.”

“Mother is obsessed with boys.”

“Mothers tend to be.”

“I wouldn’t be. I’d give it all to the little moppet.”

“Of course you would.”

“Enid wouldn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“She hardly put up a fight, did she? She could have just stood firm. Mother wouldn’t have had a choice. God knows what she’ll do to this next one. She’s not capable of looking after anything.”

“Does it matter?” Pat propped herself up on her elbows. “It’s like a fashionable craze, this having to be simply tremendous with one’s offspring. My parents were distant mountains I had no inclination to climb. I cannot see the problem with it. Gushing one way inevitably means you’ll have to gush another. I can’t see the point.”

Joan watched, through the dusty diamond window panes, a flock of starlings circle and alight amongst the birch trees. “You know what she’s like. It’s as if she’s waited all her life for something to give her character reason.”

“I can’t imagine she’s enjoying it.”

“No, but I bet she feels justified. She can complain and feel sorry for herself. She can say everything is someone else’s fault.”

“She didn’t push him down the stairs.”