The fact was she loved her husband and she adored being a mother, and while she might wish for a little more of the passion she found in films, in the top forty, and in the novels she read, she had little to complain about. And there was plenty of physical affection between her and Leonard; indeed, her friends commented on how Leonard couldn’t keep his hands off her. In most respects she was happy, of course she was, yet she couldn’t avoid a growing sense she was missing out on something, a basic human experience that was exciting and highly pleasurable. But then she was also missing out on tertiary education and a paying job. This was life, as her mother always said, and you can’t have it all.

Although she had thought she might have it all with her marriage to Leonard. Not strong enough to buck the system herself, she believed that Leonard already had, that this poet-businessman would bring his bohemia into the marriage, or take their marriage into bohemia. It hadn’t happened.

It was understood, though never discussed, that there’d be no more children after Andrew. He was their miracle baby, and it was best not test their luck. Once Andrew was in kindergarten, Sylvie volunteered her services as a driver for the Blind Institute, and by 1966, when Andrew entered first grade, she was giving her services to the blind two days a week. But what she really wanted was a proper job.

In an ideal world she would be a librarian or a teacher, but both professions required training, and first her father and then her marriage had put an end to that. When the local pharmacist advertised for a half-time assistant, she broached it with Leonard. His response didn’t surprise her: there was no need for her to work, he said, and he preferred it if she didn’t. If she had persisted, he might have relented, but she knew how seriously he regarded his role of provider, and she didn’t want to undermine it.

Except in the matter of sex — and who knows what goes on in the bedrooms of others? — her life looked much the same as that of her friends. But she felt unsettled — not all the time, not even the majority of the time. She would tune in to the hit parade while shelling the peas or making the beds, and sing along at the top of her voice about love and longing and breath-taking embraces and kisses. Sometimes when listening to a song, something strange and unrecognisable gnawed away at her; occasionally, she found herself in tears. It was as if the songs discovered parts of herself of which she was unaware.