It was quiet now. Jane sat down on the floor, disgusted with the rain that was unsettling her picnic planning, and thrust herself forward into Child’s Pose, head between her outstretched hands.

‘Don’na mind him … Do not tell him … Are ya gone mad? Remember what Mamó said, the lie told with good intent’s better than a bad truth … That’s right, love … That’s right … Shush now … Shush … Ya’ll need ta bring a bag … Oh, I don’na know … A coupl’a loose tracksuits … Pads.’ Pause. ‘In the bathroom press, love … Jim will bring everything else … stop now … That’s life … ’Twill be OK, love … Loves ya too, see ya very soon.’

*

Niquita Sherlock arrived back on the Ward very soon after the hurried phone call, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, draped in a black Juicy Couture holdall across her body. She was inconsolable, but certain. And then she was in no need of consoling and totally unsure of it. This flip-flopping went on.

Jane lay humming in Child’s Pose as Niquita stared at her while lifting the bag off over her head and placing it down on the ground.

‘I’m sure, certain, I’m so sure … What the fuck’s up with her, like?’ she said, distracted, nodding at Jane. Margaret Rose smiled. Niquita then lay on the bed and her mother stroked her face.

‘I think it’s yoga,’ she said. ‘You know, love, you’ve more time, you can think about this … You don’t have ta, I mean … ’Tis very quick … Maybe I’m rushing ya?’

Niquita hissed that Jonathan O’Keefe was a cunt. And she wanted rid of him. Margaret Rose corrected her language. But agreed he was a bad sort. Then popped her daughter’s gum bubble with her finger, clearly happy with the sudden change of heart, and they laughed. But soon after the laugh, Niquita began to wail out again, and her mother ran her hand warmly along her daughter’s bare flat midriff.

Niquita jumped when Jim arrived back, pulling a bright wheelie suitcase after him, at the same time Michal Piwaski was giving out elevenses, close to midday. Cup-of-tea. Custard cream. Michaela walked alongside him, she was there for goodbyes, as she picked a custard cream off Michal’s trolley and began nibbling one side of it. They all laughed at Jim’s suitcase. Then the girls set to taking turns plaiting each other’s hair. Tight.

I imagined Margaret Rose at home, holding court in her kitchen, back in charge. I thought of my own kitchen, too large, impersonal. Joshua, Nathan and Jacob’s Daily Activity lists were plastered on one wall, and we were rarely if ever there, off fulfilling the list after a breakfast full of omega and vitamin C shots and probiotics and everything else I could make them ingest to send them out into the world with minimal guilt. Jackets, hats, scarves, waterproof shoes, hand sanitiser, tissues, smoothies, water bottles, music lessons, karate, swimming, CoderDojo, violin, creative writing, drama, indoor soccer, outdoor football, orchestra, art classes and play therapy. Even when we were all home together, they’d leave for their bedrooms, often watching the same Netflix shows from different rooms.