There was a constant friction between Carlito’s dustiness and your cleanness. You were opposites, you and Carlito; you attracted, like magnets. Some magnets are drawn to each other, and some will not touch no matter how much you push them together. Mrs Parish and Mr Parish were the not-touching kind. You and Carlito were the irresistible coming-together kind. Mother and Papa had a faint charge, like a fridge magnet that can’t hold very many papers. All the notices fall off every time you open the door.

‘MY BLUE’

Mrs Parish’s floral arrangement was selected for an exhibition. She got notice of it in the post. She told me very quietly of this, facing the sink and peeling potatoes into it. ‘My ikebana arrangement,’ she said, ‘will be shown in the 1968 Sogetsu Victoria exhibition.’ It had been selected by the head and founder of Sogetsu Ikebana himself, Sofu Teshigahara.

‘I put in my Blue, Owen,’ she said, scraping away at the potatoes. ‘My Blue, remember it?’

I did remember her Blue: her Blue had little spots of blue heath in it, pinpoints against blackened dried twigs that went upwards in the shape of a flame. It was beautiful and delicate and sad, like a burned out house with jewels gleaming up from the ruins. I, in fact, had given it its name. Had she forgotten that?

‘My name will be in the catalogue. I have to provide a small quotation about my use of unconventional materials,’’ she continued, her back quivering slightly. Then she let the last potato fall into the sink, and turned around to me, almost frightened. ‘They will put it on display in Georges, Owen. In Georges!’

I didn’t know what to say. ‘In Georges!’ I said.

‘Oh Owen,’ she said. ‘I feel quite … exhilarated!’ She put her hand on her chest. I saw there were tears in her eyes, but they weren’t like Mother’s tears, which were bitter and angry: they were clear, glad tears. ‘Sofu Teshigahara is the Picasso of flowers! You know, I nearly didn’t even bother getting photographs made …’

‘Mr Parish will be glad,’ I said. I don’t even know why I said this. It wasn’t what I really thought. ‘He’ll be proud of you.’

‘It was Rosa who encouraged me,’ she said, and put the kettle on. ‘If Rosa were here right now,’ she said, ‘I would open one of Mr Parish’s bottles of champagne. Just like that! Without even asking him! I’ve got a mind to ring her on the telephone.’

This thought seemed to make her even happier. She went and put some jazz on the record player, changed into her gold twin-set and red lipstick, and poured herself some cooking sherry to drink with her tea. I drew her a card of congratulations, upon which I attempted a rendition of the winning work and an abbreviated ‘Congrats’ with kisses and stars. She put it on the mantelpiece, next to a framed photograph of Picasso, dog-eyed, bleary-jawed, that Mr Parish kept there.