When they returned to the house, they went into Emma’s flat.

Emma took the baby out.

‘My goodness, aren’t you hot, you poor little thing. You shall have a nice cool bath.’

While Emma bathed Ruth, Rachaela sat on the chintz sofa looking at the Chinese statuettes and blue glass animals. In pride of place above the electric fire was a paperweight of a giraffe on which inappropriate snow fell when you shook it. Pauline had sent this last Christmas.

The splashing from the bath ended.

‘She really is very hot,’ said Emma. ‘I think she’s a bit feverish. They get these little things. It’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Better not move her, then,’ said Rachaela.

‘No, I’ll keep her down with me for the night.’

The child kicked off her sheet fractiously. Her usually pale face was red. Perhaps she had caught the sun.

Upstairs Rachaela put on a tape of Brahms and laid out some leaves of lettuce and slices of tomato, a cold chicken leg from the deli. She ate without hunger, absorbing instead the music.

Later she sat and watched the golden sky turn to ruby over the roofs, the distant trees of the park blacken and fade.

This is my life then. It amused her. She did not let herself think of the Scarabae. She had become adept at avoiding them. Avoiding him. She would pick up the thought and put it outside her mind. When it came back, she removed it again.

She turned on the radio and listened to a Greek play which she did not understand but liked.

At about ten-thirty when she was running a long bath, Emma knocked on the door.

‘Please don’t be worried,’ she said at once, ‘but I think I’d better phone the doctor. He won’t be there, of course, but they’ll have someone. She’s terrifically hot and she keeps crying. You know she never cries. I’m sure it’s nothing, but I want to be sure.’

‘All right,’ said Rachaela. ‘Do you want to bring her up here?’

‘No, no. And I can phone from downstairs. I’ll come back and tell you what they say.’

‘Yes.’

When Emma was gone, Rachaela got into the bath. She shaved her legs and underarms, and shampooed her hair. Emma knocked again. Rachaela went to the door in a towel, and with a second towel wrapped round her head.

‘Someone’s coming out. They said about an hour.’

‘I see.’

‘You’ll come down, won’t you,’ said Emma.

‘If you think I should.’

‘Yes you must, Rachaela. She’s your child.’ Emma looked pale and distraught.

Rachaela said nothing and Emma went away.

Rachaela rinsed her hair and wrapped it up in another towel. She dressed and put on her shoes and went down to Emma’s flat.