Mary dropped her basket and was there, picking him up in a second, but it wasn’t a second for Enid. Ian screamed, Enid’s chair fell backwards, Everett, floured hands and red in the face, turned around, Fagus got off the bench, held the seat with one hand and said, “Etty?” Finetta carried on picking flowers while Mary scooped Ian off the ground and brushed his knees. There was nothing hurt, nothing wrong, but Enid held onto the table as Fagus held onto the bench.

If someone could have seen inside her head, the hairline cracks that at once began to spread, they might have known to say, it’s all right, Enid. He’s fine. He’s just a normal little boy. But no one could and no one did. Everett brushed flour from her brow, adding more. Mary crouched in front of Ian, ran a finger down his nose, poked him gently in the belly and said, “Running so fast, clever little thing.” To Enid she seemed to be saying it over and over, her finger running down his nose, a playful poke in the belly, a careful palm to the little boy’s cheek, “Running so fast, clever little thing,” while Fagus stood with one hand on the bench repeating, “Etty?” and Finetta filled her basket with purple flowers. Enid looked from one to the other, the fracture in her mind spreading like ruptured ground. There was too much life, it was too fragile, it hung on a finger-point of God. It was before her, in all its endless maybes – a thousand ways to travel, a trip on the stair, an heir ruined, another child she couldn’t love for fear of loving.

She left the room, and not one of them looked up to see her go.

In her bedroom she felt for the suitcase kept on the high wardrobe shelf, and caught it as it fell. It was empty but for a bobby pin and a ticket stub in the elasticated pocket. She chose a few dresses, summer ones; her winters were in the attic. Light jumpers, three, in varying shades of green. Belts, stockings, shoes. Gloves: two pairs. Her jewellery – just her engagement ring. She put it on. The emerald and diamonds glistened and shone and felt heavy on her thin finger, a heaviness she’d missed – it had been years since she’d worn it, she’d forgotten somehow, after the balloon of pregnancy had deflated, that it was there in her bureau draw; she’d forgotten to put it back on. She twisted it, remembering the feel, and ran it once to her knuckle and back. From the chest of drawers she pulled flannel nightgowns. They were light, they folded easily.