Sylvie said she’d be honoured to see her work. ‘Although I know nothing about art, Galina.’

‘Galya, please, it is my familiar name. But you are a mother, and you will have seen many picture books for children.’

Sylvie was about to say her picture-book days were long in the past, then decided not to argue. She wanted to spend time with Galina, and she was surprised, pleased too, that anyone might ask her opinion of anything beyond the domestic.

The following morning, after making the beds and tidying the kitchen, cleaning the bathrooms and polishing the furniture, after baking an orange cake to take to Galina’s and fixing a scheduling problem for the drivers at the Blind Institute, Sylvie headed across town. Thirty minutes later, she was parking in the street bordering the cemetery. The grassy verge that separated the cemetery from the road had been energised by the recent rain; so too the gracious old elms. She stood a moment, her face raised skywards: she could smell the trees, she could smell the greenness. And the sky was a miracle. The centre of the dome was leaden, but closer to the horizon the grey blanket had puffed into lush white dollops; as she watched, the clouds parted to reveal a wedge of blue so brilliant it was as if the sky itself had been washed. Seconds later, the blue was gone in a whoosh of wind, but closer to the horizon another crack was opening up. The sky was a changing miracle; if only, she found herself thinking, life were equally vibrant and varied.

She crossed the road and, following Galina’s instructions, walked up the lane. She felt a nervous excitement, that special eagerness when travelling somewhere new — London, Paris, or the home of a Russian émigré in Melbourne, Australia. Sylvie couldn’t migrate to Sydney or Perth with Leonard, much less cross the world alone. This girl had courage and stamina enough to face the most taxing trials. Sylvie wished she had a little more of both herself.

But for what? The question came to her unbidden. What would she do with more stamina? And what with more courage?

Once, she had wanted more of life than being a stay-at-home wife; once, she believed marriage to Leonard would bring her more. But now? She strove for perfection in the things that did not matter. Her house was spotless, her linen was folded with military precision, her biscuits never crumbled, her cakes never failed. Even her own son referred to her as a ‘domestic queen’. But if Leonard, or any man for that matter, were to be living like this, he’d be said to be wasting himself.