Susan has invited me to attend a group she has formed, lady patrons of the arts, something like that, but I’m not going to. I would only make some terrible class boo-boo and be sent home with my tail between my legs. Or find myself wearing the wrong dress or coat. You wouldn’t feel equal to it either, I’m sure, though I imagine you think me silly for turning Susan down. I haven’t much else to do, I know. I have a sort of mental paralysis, though, just thinking about such things: spending an afternoon talking, eating, talking, eating with a group of women I don’t even really know … I no longer feel capable of such feats. Yes, it would seem like a feat.

And I have neither the money nor the inclination for philanthropy.

Jo sends love. Owen sends thanks for Hot Wheels, belatedly I’m afraid. His note is within.

And no, I’m not thinking about having another baby. Are you joking? What sort of a mother have I been so far?

And no, no response from Hannah.

Love always,

Veda xxx

† † †

17 JUNE 1969

Dearest Tilde,

You won’t believe the latest development: Owen has become a vegetarian!

I’m not joking, Tilde. He has sworn off meat in any form.

Jo is rabid with anger. He considers it a personal insult. I’m afraid I provide very little support. When Jo asked me to help him convince Owen to change his mind, I said: ‘Let him eat beans!’ at which my husband fumed.

What made O-yo come to such a decision, you ask? Well, to be honest, I think it was all due to my serving a particularly fatty old steak. (I don’t often cook steak anymore, and so perhaps I was not paying enough attention and served it a bit underdone.) We were just sitting there, at the table, he and I, and Owen was prodding away at his steak, pressing the fork against it to see the blood squeeze out, and he said to me: ‘Mother, is this from a cow?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, darling. Steak comes from cows. As does beef. And milk. And leather.’ (I was quite reasonable!)

‘So …’ he said. ‘Would this be a baby cow or a grown-up?’

I had forgotten, you see, that he has a little pet cow at the Parishes’. A little runty thing that has grown quite big now and has free run of the place.

‘Oh, O-yo,’ I said. ‘An infant cow. But not a baby. Say, a year and a half old?’

‘Paddy Cow is five,’ he said.

‘Well, isn’t she lucky to get so old!’ I said. ‘Isn’t she lucky: she’s not ever going to end up on someone’s plate.’

Owen considered that for a bit, and then pushed his plate away. ‘This could be her brother,’ he said.

‘Or sister,’ I said.

What else could I say?