“She’s not going to kill him.” That was a stupid thing to say; she saw her mother’s lips tighten. “I mean, I’m sure it will all be fine.”

“Fine. Fine. Why must you girls use that phrase? I shall jolly well have to keep an eye on him, that much is certain. I’ve already told Douglas that I want regular reports, and that he’s to bring him up as soon as convenient. I want to see him at least every month.”

“There you are, then.”

“You said yourself that it’s like relying on a lifeboat to get one across the Atlantic.”

“I did not.”

“I heard you say it to Pat.”

Goddamn it. She’d thought her mother was asleep that time, too. They’d been playing two-hand whist. Sybil hadn’t moved from her chair for hours. Pat had replied: let’s give it up then shall we? Jump over board. Move to Casablanca or Khartoum, somewhere fabulous. We could have a life, and they’d talked about it for hours.

“If I were feeling firm, I should say you have as much duty as your sister.”

“I’ve no guts for procreation.” She mustn’t snap. She mustn’t. Her mother was just flinging out ropes, hoping to be saved. She didn’t mean to whip Joan. She knew nothing. If she knew – but no. If she knew, God knows what she’d say. She’d probably tell Joan that she’d got herself in a muddle, pat her hand, assume she didn’t understand the world.

“Streatley,” said Joan, reading the sign as they passed it. They drove through the village – a row of shops, a large, shapeless village green, the spire of a church through trees – and out again.

“Do you know where you’re going?” shouted Sybil at the glass partition.

“I’m sure he does, mother. I gave him Douglas’ directions.”

They wound up a hill and pulled in at a gravel drive.

“At least there are gates,” said Sybil, sniffing. Their driver got out to open them.

“There you are!” Douglas stood in the hall. “Let me take your things.”

Joan shrugged off her coat and helped her mother from her fur wrap.

“And how was your journey? Not too long, I hope. Marvellous weather, isn’t it?” he said, and rubbed his hands together as though he were cold.

“Are we to greet him standing up?” said Sybil.

“Good Lord, no! In here, in here.” He opened a door to their right. “Come on in. Ma, why don’t you take an armchair?”

There was a cot placed on the rug, all covered in white lace and frills, but with nothing in it. Sybil peered at it. “Where is he?”

“Enid’s just changing. She thought she’d bring him in herself. He’s absolutely bonny.”

“And the others?” said Joan.

“Shall I ask Mary to bring in Finetta? She’s simply dying to see you.”