Owen and I have been quietly recuperating at home. I don’t think I deserve sherry-drinking and literary self-congratulation for some time, so I have been avoiding the Knoxes, though Edith writ me a kind little note. Mr and Mrs Parish too have been very restrained and kind, though I am sure a part of them is thinking: thank goodness the child has a pair of reliable guardians now! Mrs Parish bought Owen three lovely books, and has promised there will be more next time he goes to theirs.

So I am feeling chagrined and grateful and regretful all at once. I have written three horrible poems that I have immediately torn up, and have now set myself to child-safing the house—Jo laughs at me, but I’m sure he wouldn’t if he were responsible for these bandaged legs. They are a constant reprimand, reminding me that perhaps I should’ve stuck to my childhood conviction: ‘No Children For Me!’ I’m not sure how I knew at the age of seven that I would be an appalling mother, but I did you know, Tilde. I could never even look after a doll properly.

Strident comes out next month, with two of my poems in it: ‘Slumber’ and ‘Entitled’. There is an event to mark the publication at the bookshop, with all contributors invited. I will go, of course, but the whole thing seems somewhat of an ordeal right now.

Don’t worry about me, though. I will recover. I’m not about to go into a slump, I promise you. But I wish I could see my older, wiser, more practical sister: she makes me feel a little less stupid in the world.

Love Veda x

† † †

1 SEPTEMBER 1966

Dear Tilde,

I’m sorry to hear about Mother. Is there anything I can do?

Jane is no doubt keeping everything running smoothly while Mother’s laid up. Send her my love, won’t you.

I have inserted into this letter the latest photograph of Owen. This is a portrait shot we had made in a studio and I think it is fairly good, as far as such things go. Captures his spirit, generally speaking, his joie de vivre (he is joyful, you know, it’s a constant surprise that a human creature could be so reliably bloody joyful). He is as blonde as a little wheat germ: hair, eyebrows, eyelashes, the whole lot. I know his looks will darken as he gets older, so I wanted to capture this particular angelically blonde phase. Show Mother, won’t you? She never asks for any information or pictures. I suppose she has enough grandchildren, what with all of yours. Owen is a belated and somewhat superfluous addition. Meanwhile, the bandages are off, Tilde, and there is a mark the size of a penny on one shin, and that is all. I feel I have been thrown a rather large Get Out of Jail Free card.