— You’re a lily. I’ve never been a lily.

Lydia climbed the stairs and sat down beside Christine with the book in her lap. — Who wants to be a fucking lily? Although I must say, look how nice I was once, in your picture. What fun we had in those days.

One of Christine’s acrylics, a painting of Lydia from years ago, hung on the opposite wall. Lydia was holding a fan, with a scarf of black lace over her hair, like a Maja; she was painted in dense brushstrokes with a lot of black, the room behind in an exaggerated childlike perspective, decorated with symbols which were deliberately obvious – a goldfinch, cherries. Christine had been thinking of her work then as set designs for plays that were never performed or even written. It was from around the time when she won the Whitechapel Prize, and everyone had been so surprised – painting was still unfashionable, and they hadn’t thought anyway it would go to a woman – that it hadn’t given the boost to her career it should have done. — Can I have it when you’re tired of it? Lydia said. — It means a lot to me, it’s beautiful. It’s my past.

— You can have it now. It’s yours.

— Why aren’t you painting, Chris? Is it because I’m here?

— You think everything’s about you. It isn’t about you, Lydia.

— About Zachary then. I think it’s about him.

Lydia felt Christine stiffen against her in repudiation. She said she didn’t want to talk about her work – she was taking a break, that was all. Why was everyone making such a fuss? Her face closed stubbornly.

— Talk to me about Zachary, Lydia said. — I need to think about him. He was so transparent in his life and now in his death he’s an enigma, I can’t get through to him. Tell me things you know about him, that I don’t know.

— I can’t, Lydia. I can’t bear to. Not just now, I’m sorry.

Grace wanted to get back to her friends in Glasgow. — It’s bad for me down here, she said to Isobel. — I’m just dwelling on Dad. I’m longing to do something with my hands, without my mind in it.

— I’ll miss you so much, I’ll be so solitary. Don’t stay away too long.

— I want to get back to my chisels, and vent all my pent-up feelings on some stones. Not that they’re very pent up, you’re thinking, Iz. Anyway, I’ve got to do something with the rest of my life.

The four women sat up late one night, finishing their quilt – even Lydia joined in, stitching with a frowning effort disproportionate to the tiny progress she made. When they held the quilt up finally, they were moved by what they’d brought into being between them. They hadn’t appliquéd Zachary’s whole name in the end, only woven a huge Z into their spiral design, cut out of a bright red flannel that had once been his waistcoat. Christine said she would sew on the backing fabric, with cotton wadding, on her machine.