While Constance showered, Diana took up a small slate, lifted the cellophane to clear it of the crossed-off items of yesterday, and began to write the list for today, the first item intended to amuse Constance:

Put on your clothes

Breakfast

The morning show

Lift bulbs in the bed by the garage

Lunch

Rest

Errands on the avenue

Walk on the beach

Dinner with David

The last three items had been scribbled impatiently and had to be erased and redone. Even taking care, Diana formed letters only Constance and druggists could read. Reinforcing any cliché about her profession irritated Diana, but even now she couldn’t slow down her mind to make her hand its adequate servant.

She propped the slate against Constance’s gardening clothes and went downstairs to plug in the electric kettle and put the eggs on to boil, taking pleasure in these homely chores which for so many years had been done for her. She wondered how many retired husbands became smug about their talent for boiling eggs.

Constance arrived at the breakfast table, dressed, with the slate in her hand, the first item crossed off.

‘David who?’ she asked.

‘My brother.’

Constance stared away at the blank slate of her memory.

‘My twin brother.’

‘Is it your birthday?’ Constance asked in sudden agitation.

‘No, no of course not.’

‘Then why is he coming?’

‘I’m not really sure. He invited himself.’

‘With …’ Constance paused.

‘His wife died last year,’ Diana reminded her.

There were times when Diana envied Constance’s memory loss. Even a year dead, David’s wife Patricia was lodged in Diana’s memory like a tumour.

‘Are you glad he’s coming?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not sure I have room for him after all these years, if that’s what he wants.’

‘You do finally have to forgive men for marrying.’

‘Even badly?’

‘Of course.’

‘Am I a grudge holder?’ Diana asked.

‘I’m the one who would be if I could be,’ Constance said. ‘I can’t even remember what’s the matter with me most of the time.’

‘There’s nothing the matter with you, except that.’

‘Isn’t there?’

‘No,’ Diana said in the certain tone she had learned to use in her office, coagulant for the random fears of pregnant women, menopausal women. She hadn’t had much to do with old women like herself and Constance.

‘Were you a doctor in real life?’ Constance asked.

‘Yes.’

‘You sound like one,’ she said dismissively.

Diana laughed.

‘Oh, I know you,’ Constance said. ‘I’ve always known you, Dr Crown.’

She crossed breakfast off her slate and then looked in a puzzled way at the litter on the table.

‘What happens to this?’

‘I’ll do it. You go watch your show.’

‘Don’t you go to the office?’

‘No,’ Diana said, also in a learned tone, bleached of regret.