But what would she do to the next one, this next one whom they were, in an hour or so, going to see? And why did they have to keep shoving them at her, a woman so incapable that she’d lost one already? No, that was unfair. She knew it was unfair, but she couldn’t help it. If it wasn’t Enid’s fault, then whose was it? If they’d got to him early, if the medics had been allowed to look, then none of it might have happened. Fagus might have had proper help and surgery or medicine, or whatever it was that he’d needed when he’d grown with a head too big. But now that was all washed over, wasn’t it – a new baby to flatten the bumps, rake the earth, and make everything look rosy all over again.

Her mother appeared to have dropped off – her eyes were closed, her face rested in slow collapse; her mouth open, as if she had no teeth. That’s what she’ll look like when she’s dead, thought Joan, when nothing is left but loose skin, the soul, whatever that is, flown. They will bury her next to their father, in the tomb that bears a plaque to their brother, and she, Joan, will come up and visit. Strachur will be Enid’s. Joan will stay at The George; she won’t stay at Strachur anymore. She’ll come up and visit and remember the tower of old-fashioned loyalty that had got her through her childhood.