She knew she was watching her mother die – even though that final eclipse may not be for years – but everything had a beginning. She was pulling into another world, and as the veils dropped, closing her off, it made it difficult to see her face; it drained her skin of colour, while more and more her mind seemed to be wondering back to that godless unknown, as if she could concentrate less and less on what was before her. More and more often Joan would see her – in her armchair by the fire, or like this, in the Rolls, amassed in some interior vision or perhaps just switching off. What blessed relief, thought Joan, to give in to the insistent dragging. But she would rather not die in inches – how could she be sure there’d be anyone there to measure out her cup? Would Pat still be there? She didn’t know. She didn’t want to think about it. At least Enid would have her children, Douglas, conformity, normality, an acceptable order of things. However bloody their wretched marriage was, it was allowed. It could be spoken about, and guarded; things could be put in place, but what did she and Pat have? The thin excuse of companionship, having to put up with the term spinster, and deal with it because it allowed them to love unfettered. Just the two of them, neither wanting to go first or last.

She’d witnessed her father’s gradual waltz, his painful deterioration made worse by the ruined love between them, and it had almost put her off loving anyone. He’d tried when she hadn’t, she’d tried when he hadn’t; their habit of misjudgement had continued right up until the end, when his last words to her had been go away, because she’d come to see him too early, before he’d been shaved. But Enid had known better than to knock on his door before ten – and Enid had been allowed in when no one else was, not even their mother. With Sybil, Joan will know better. She’ll be the one to get it right, to stand as sentry when the time came, judging their dying mother’s needs, telling Enid: not now, you’ll tire her.

London was far behind them. They were on a lane of high-banked earth topped with trees in full May rush, a tunnel of green and sunlight.

“I do wish you’d get yourself a chap.”

Her mother’s voice made her jump. Christ. That woman. She behaved as though silence was only another waiting for her to speak. “I thought you’d dropped off.”

“It would be such a relief if you could make an effort.”

“Perhaps I can order one at Fortnum’s.” Joan looked out of the window.

“Thinking ahead is not funny, my girl, it’s prudent. I’ve told you before. Enid is not to be trusted.”