Enid walked back from the dairy, a churn of milk in each hand. Across the lawns, jogging up the drive of Didlington Hall, she saw the post boy, the mailbag slung over his narrow shoulders. It was months since she’d written and not a word. Nothing. Her mother had probably put the screws on, but if he wouldn’t divorce her, she could file for an annulment. She knew about these things. She’d made enquiries with a solicitor in Swaffham.

She stopped for a minute to rub her nose. She hadn’t expected it to be instant, but she had thought she’d hear by now. Where was he? Africa? Last June she’d conceded that perhaps he was. He’d gone on about Port Elizabeth enough. She’d thought about writing to his firm to enquire of his whereabouts, but had discarded the idea along with the letter. Too personal, too impersonal. Not the thing at all. She’d concluded he must be in Africa. She’d addressed her letter to Cherry Trees, someone would have forwarded it; there was nothing to do but wait. She picked up the churns and carried on.

Thank goodness she’d left. She still felt that, although now she had to push a little harder to feel pleased. She’d done the best thing imaginable. It was impossible to comprehend any life with him again, and nothing could have made her point clearer than walking out. She’d gone over it and over it – despondency had been trampled in the rush of determination that day; the day of Fagus’ seventh birthday, and whenever it tried to stand up she hit it again with the same conclusion. What happy woman would have left her children? None – only one desperate, as she’d been, who’d had no other choice. But he’d understand now, especially as she’d made it clear that she was ready to take up the only mantle that mattered. She was ready, at least she felt ready; at least that’s what she’d said in her letter so she’d better be.

Her children tugged on her, they sang at her, they came in flashes as she was going about her day. Ian’s chubby legs, Finetta’s curls, Fagus’ sweet round face. Where were they? She searched for them as if they’d run off over the lawn playing hide and seek; she felt them about her and could not see them, and wondered at the tug that had awakened and shouted and hadn’t stopped shouting since April. Had it been shouting all along, this blood pull that made her think of them constantly? Had it only been muted by exhaustion?