“Oh,” says Hannah. “Sarah? Oh no.” For a long while she is silent, then she leans forward and puts her face in her hands.

“Han . . .” Cate puts her hand on Hannah’s arm, worried she has punctured her frail bubble of happiness, but when Hannah looks back up her face is unexpected, shining.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, quite quietly.

“What?”

Hannah laughs, puts her hands to her face.

“Oh my god,” Cate says. “Who—?”

“Nathan. He came to the flat. To collect some things. It was quick. So quick.” She shakes her head. “All that time, and then . . .” She makes a gesture, her palms upturned, and Cate sees the surprise still, on her face.

“Does he know?”

“No.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Not yet.”

“You have to tell him, Han.”

“I want to wait. Wait to see if I’ll manage to keep hold of it. If it will stay.”

“How many weeks are you?”

“Eight, or nine. I’m not sure. I’ve got a sonogram booked at the end of the month.”

Cate watches her hands move to her abdomen, rest there. “Can I come?”

“To the sonogram?”

“Yes. Can I come with you?” Cate reaches across, takes hold of her friend’s hand.

Lissa

IT WAS SUGGESTED THAT SARAH MIGHT WANT TO MOVE DOWNSTAIRS, to the old study at the back of the house, but she has refused. I’ll die in my own bed, thank you very much.

Laurie has moved in, taking the bedroom beside Sarah’s, the one that faces out onto the street. They have established an easy rhythm, Lissa and Laurie; they are solicitous with each other, taking turns to sit with Sarah while the other cooks or cleans, or sleeps.

Sarah is a surprisingly easy patient—whatever pain she is in, and Lissa knows it must be great, she rarely complains.

Sarah’s friends visit. Some of them Lissa hasn’t seen for almost thirty years: June and Caro and Ina and Ruth. They congregate round Sarah’s bed. Lissa leaves them to it. Sometimes the laughter is raucous and wild. Sometimes they sing.

While Sarah sleeps, they gather round the kitchen table. They take over. They make Lissa sit and drink wine, or tea. They take Lissa’s face in their hands and cry and kiss her cheeks and tell her how much she looks like her mother, and when they hug Lissa to their chests in their embrace, Lissa knows that they have lived through illnesses and lived through children and lived through no children and that they are a tribe, these women, with their battered bodies and their scars.

She is awed by them, these women of her mother’s generation; they appear to her shining, like a constellation that is setting in the west. These women, these caretakers. What will happen to the world when they have gone?

When they are gone the house is quiet.