Sunshine pushed through windows at the far end, and the stove gave out black-metal heat. At a sink, Enid took off her ring, picked up a scrubbing brush and set to on a potato. She brushed a stray hair from her temple with her arm. Today she’d failed to join the picnic walk to the estuary and snapped at John, a gentleman in his eighties, whose widower son of the same name lived in eternal struggle to care for his constantly sick offspring. She’d gone round there once, with Ruby on one arm and old John on the other, to see young John in his cottage by the park walls, but the sight of three limp children had made her ill too, and what good was that? Did she need to be reminded? She’d gone back to bed and cried for a week. No one had suggested it again. She’d said his name only once, at her third meeting, when Ruby had asked if she had anyone for healing. “Fagus.” Her voice had come out rusty. But he could never have enough; the further away she got, the closer he seemed to come. She dreamt of him, he clouded her days. She couldn’t get away from him. Ruby had written it down.

She picked up another potato. On her right hung a calendar, hand-drawn by a resident intent on celebrating time. Each month had an emblem – April was symbolised by cherry blossom. Her gaze drifted down the dates. She lost track of the days here – everyday was the same; only the seasons stood out. She knew it was Wednesday because she was doing potatoes, and she knew that in two weeks they’d have a celebration of the beginning of summer, so that made today – she ran her eyes along the second week, Wednesday the seventeenth of April.

Fagus’ birthday. He’d be seven. She looked at her sleeve, and noticed it was soaked in dirty water.

Someone else could do the potatoes. She patted her hands on an old towel left hanging over the back of a kitchen chair, put her ring back on and ran up to her room. In bed, a book for a table on her raised knees, her hands still damp she wrote,