Ian’s birth took up the isolated simplicity of snapshots – the pain, the sweat, the humiliation of a doctor in the room – it all felt so long ago. He’d fed from her a little, and for a little while. She’d had something for him, and fresh goat’s milk did the rest. He was growing splendidly. That was her mother’s word. Isn’t he splendid? when she’d come out to see him, daring a journey to Berkshire. Finetta had wriggled on Mary’s knee, Everett had struggled in with an overladen tray, and Enid had sat in the window seat, a clean dress on, her hair brushed for the first time in days, stared at her newborn son and cried helplessly, despite him lying there so perfect in the frilly, white lace cot, despite her mother clapping her hands, despite Douglas looking embarrassed. If his brother had been perfect, there’d have been no need for him.

She must stop it. She must get up. He was splendid; everything a normal mother could want. She must stop these thoughts that were trying to kill her. She must at least try. That’s what they all kept saying, anyway: the doctor and midwife, Everett, Douglas. Fresh air. That was their chorus: fresh air, a good walk, sunshine. Come and hold him, Everett had said again yesterday, after a week had gone by since the last time, but he felt as if he didn’t belong to her; he was someone else’s child opening his blue eyes, looking into hers, screwing up his face, and wailing. She’d gone back to bed.

Her bedside table was crowded with cups of half-drunk tea gone cold – a city of past calamities, from when she’d slunk away having failed again and Everett had come up with a tray. They kept bringing her tea, Everett did and sometimes Mary. Tea. As if it fixed everything. Come on, Enid, she thought, contemplating pushing off the covers and standing up. Come on.