‘Right,’ said Holly, though nothing about breastfeeding was obvious to her. She thought with regret of their previous exchanges, in which she’d been so ready to drop little barbs for Genevieve. Why hadn’t she been kinder when she told her about her daughter?

Yet she did not, for whatever reason, recount this exchange to Ben at home later; she must have felt it didn’t work as one of her anecdotes, most of which had a theme of Genevieve-is-the-worst. It didn’t fit the picture she had created, and perhaps deep down she didn’t want to remake the picture. At the same time, she was absorbed by her own dramas, her own concerns.

There was the sad demise of Pickles and her burden of shame and sorrow. Mourning brought her closer to Ben, something she did not expect. They searched for, but didn’t find, the rest of the rabbit carcass. They pondered what to do with the pelt, but there was no way of keeping it that wasn’t totally unsanitary, and since it was already starting to get a bit whiffy, they settled on a covert burial by night in Weavers Fields. This meant finding a bushy patch, diving in like a pair of teenagers looking for somewhere to grope each other, and tipping the furry pelt from a shoebox onto the earth. Then, kneeling side by side, they covered it over with dirt. And Ben recited Shelley, something about rose leaves when the rose is dead, being heaped for the beloved’s bed.

He took her hand as he spoke, and the whole thing was curiously intimate and sad, much more real than the half-ironic funeral they expected it to be. They were drawn together in the night in a slightly grotty East London park, while cars trawled up Vallance Road.

Other things were happening in the world, she noticed that week. Spring, for instance. A magnolia tree in a garden she passed each day burst without warning into full, glorious flower, suddenly simply there, demanding wonder and attention. It was enough to raise your spirits or break your heart, or both at once – those great, dishy petals enacting a gorgeous wild unfurling.

Rehearsals grew more intense. Everyone felt it. To lighten the mood, Miles had them do a brainstorming session. ‘So what we’re looking for is a Reason To Believe,’ he said, ‘a reason to care about this story now, in the present. If the late general represents a great generation, who would that be for us?’

‘Churchill.’

‘The Wombles.’

‘Tony Benn.’ This came from Rhys.