‘No,’ I said, with feeling.

‘And then there she was, gadding off to her ban the bomb meetings and leaving her baby with me because I was an old woman and didn’t have nothing else to do.’ She sucked at her cigarette. The room had grown darker. ‘They all think that. Think they’re doing you a favour. I’m quite happy, thank you.’

I felt uneasy, I don’t know why. I thought of my mother calling my visits a blessing. Afterwards I’d felt smug, like you feel when you pull in the car to let an ambulance pass—a deeper feeling, of course, but that sort of thing. Had I just felt I was doing my duty?

I stubbed out my cigarette in the ashtray; it hissed.

‘I’ll tell you something for nothing, young man,’ she said. ‘She wouldn’t have asked my husband.’

‘Asked him what?’

‘To look after the baby. That’s women’s blooming lib for you.’ She coughed, and passed me her cigarette to put out. It sizzled, and lay next to mine in the puddle of the ashtray.

‘Dark so quick,’ she said, looking out of the window. ‘Sometimes I think I’ll just stay in me nightie.’

‘Don’t say that!’ I said. ‘Surely there’s lots of things to do, there’s—’

‘God, don’t you start.’

The clock chimed again. Another quarter-hour had passed. When I thought about Edward I lost all track of time.

I had a vision of my mother—always, when I arrived, she was in the same chair as I’d left her days before. She always said it was very pleasant and they were very nice. There’s lots of things to do, she said. Today I remembered the smell of the place—sweetish. The ether that old fruit gives off. It had stayed in my nostrils.

I heard someone shuffling past in the corridor; clunk, clunk, went a walking frame. ‘Much good he would have been anyway,’ said Mrs Selwyn.

‘What?’

‘Harold. All the best ones had been taken, see, when I was a girl.’

‘Been taken where?’

The cat had climbed onto her knee now; she stroked it. ‘Taken in France. In their prime.’ She glared at me, suddenly irritable. ‘The War!’ She paused. ‘He wasn’t up to much.’

‘But …’

‘Got more fun from that little boy, to be honest. He used to belch at dinner.’

‘They do, don’t they,’ I said. ‘At that age.’

‘Harry,’ she said. ‘My husband. Aren’t you listening?’ She glared at me, and went on. ‘He Used to belch at meals, but only when I was there. Not in company.’

Suddenly I cried out: ‘Say you were happy!’

There was a pause. She looked at me, frowning. It was so dark I could hardly see her now. ‘They sent you from the Department?’ she demanded.

I shook my head.

‘You look at my sheets,’ she said. ‘Nothing wrong with them. Not like some people I could mention.’

I felt helpless. ‘What happened to little Eddie?’ It felt foreign, calling him that. By now he had become another child; I had so many new things to recollect about him. I needed to go away and think about them.