I’ve never since a woman wince so many times in a single conversation, Tilde. Still, I could tell that, in spite of her discomfort, and in spite of her husband putting her up to it, there is a desperation in her—that this is something she wants as well. Not necessarily for reasons that are bad or dishonest or mercenary … God knows I have little enough writing time—on that, she’s correct. So I restrained my sense of offence, and asked for details. She wants, she said—they want—merely to act as de facto ‘uncle and aunt’ to Owen. To have him on weekends and holidays. To give him some of the advantages they can offer: a really good education, good connections, country air, holidays abroad.

Tilde, I don’t know how I feel about this. At the time, I was so angry it was all I could do to keep my seat. I thought: they think I’m not a good enough mother. But afterwards, in the car home, my heart went out to her. Just looking at her in the driver’s seat, her stooped back, spidery grey hair—I began to feel sorry for her. She must be getting on for fifty. Stuck for life with a man who, despite his intelligence, is not warm, is not loving … I thought of her in that big cold quiet house, and I couldn’t help imagining how much joy a child’s voice would bring …

We took our leave from the car and I imagine she probably sobbed all the way home. I certainly did when I got inside.

I haven’t even told Jo yet. What should I do? I am all crinkled up with pain and empathy. (And yet, there is a part of me … Well, the truth is, I can’t help thinking of all the writing time it would buy me.)

Write me wisely!

Love Veda x

† † †

5 JUNE 1962

Dear Tilde,

I’m looking at Owen right now as I write, and I am putting him in his nicest warm jacket and the only pants without mends or stains, and sending him off to the Parishes’ for the weekend.