Poor James. The ‘runt of the family’. Why did he call himself that, for God’s sake? We had all tried to make him fit but twelve years between us did make a difference, it had to be faced, and I really didn’t much care for him. I had to admit that. Slender, fair-haired, a bit arty-farty, always drawing something and painting large canvases with squares and circles and naming them The Inner Angst or Resurrection or something equally pretentious. Anyway, I thought so.

‘I know what I was,’ he once said to me. ‘I was a sudden-turn-over-in-bed-one-sultry-night. Caught them both by surprise, didn’t I? I wasn’t wanted, or even intended; that’s been made clear.’

He did well at art school – scholarship, modest exhibition, to which we all had to go, at some gallery in Bruton Street – then he just cleared off to France to paint, or ‘live’, as he called it, on a small allowance Father gave him. I got a couple of postcards from time to time, nothing much, out of the blue.

And we drifted apart. It didn’t bother me at all. That was that.

Until the key.

‘What was in your packet?’ Helen, dressed, ready to take Annie to ballet school, a fish slice in her hand.

I told her briefly, without showing her the letter.

‘What on earth for? What a crazy thing to do. Honestly, you Caldicotts. A rum bunch you are. What the hell do you want a cottage in wherever it is for? And what do you suppose he’s done? Gone off to join the gypsies or something?’

‘I’ve cleared the breakfast things. Mugs and so on.’

‘You are kind. I’ll be out for lunch. Maureen’s meeting me at Fortnum’s; there’s cold ham, bully beef, salad, eggs, bread and so on, and a new chunk of Cheddar. I’ll be back about fourish. Keep an eye on Giles, won’t you; just liquids today, he’s perfectly all right, no fever.’

She clattered away like a bickering magpie and I went up to the office to try and work out what to do next. I’d got enough on my plate for one morning.

Looked in on Giles, who was reading.

‘You better?’

‘Yup.’

‘Mother’s going out for lunch.’

‘I know. She said.’

‘I’ll be in. Upstairs. We can have lunch together if you like.’

‘She said only liquid stuff today. I’m ill.’

‘Okay … well … if you want anything just yell out.’

‘Yup.’

He went back to his book, indifferently. I went on up to my office and stood looking at the typewriter. A smell of stale cigarette smoke, balls of screwed up paper. I opened the windows and let in some fresh air, emptied the ashtray, sat down and wondered.