“Sybil’s your cousin,” Susan said. “It’s a commonly accepted mark of respect and affection for older people. And, much though I hate to nag you on your first day home, please don’t put that sausage in your mouth whole.” She lit a cigarette and stared gloomily through the kitchen window. It was still raining as it had been since daybreak.

Harry swallowed the sausage with his mouth full. He said: “She does pong a bit though, doesn’t she?”

“Shut up!” Susan shouted. “Don’t be such a horrible little oaf!”

Barbara began to cry. “Don’t shout, Mummy. Please don’t shout, Mummy.”

I put my arm around her shoulders. “Turn off the waterworks, Barb,” I said. “If you’re good I’ll read to you.”

Susan took a drink of tea; I noticed that the cup was rattling against the saucer. “That’s right,” she said. “Encourage her. And encourage Harry, too. Don’t mind about me. I’m just the poor old drudge.”

“Take it easy,” I said, still holding Barbara. I would have liked to have held Harry too; he had a frightened look. But his prep school had long since taught him that all physical expressions of affection between parent and child were – as he’d told me when unthinkingly I tried to kiss him when I came home – sloppy and embarrassing.

“Take it easy! I’ve been at it every minute of the day. You know Mrs. Morlatt’s off and I’ve to do it all myself, you know I’ve not been well, and what do you do to help?”

Barbara began to howl.

It was a high-pitched animal sound, half anger and half misery. I held the small body tight.

“Ah don’t, sweetheart. Don’t, my darling, my precious . . .”

Harry continued to eat his sausages. “Silly little baby,” he said. “You cry for nothing.”

Barbara looked at him as if somehow betrayed; Carruthers suddenly appeared on his face and her howls redoubled, ending in hiccups which left her face dark red.

“Leave her alone,” I said. “You know she hates being called a baby.”

I patted her back gently. “She’s tired,” I said to Susan.

“You put her to bed, then,” Susan said. “If you love her so much, you look after her for a bit and see how you like it.”

“Get me a bloody pinny,” I said, “and you can go out to work. Believe me, I wouldn’t mind. You’d probably be better than me, anyway. My face doesn’t fit, you see—”

I stopped; I was whining, I was whining in front of the children, I was doing what a long time ago I’d sworn I’d never do.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Leave the kids to me. Harry, help wash up, won’t you, Harry?”