Diana wondered where both her nephews had learned the ease they had with Constance. Their parents were like most people she’d known, uneasy in the dislocations Constance made in any conversation, polite, sympathetic, but self-conscious, unable to avoid condescension. The boys treated Constance’s lack of memory as a problem for her rather than for themselves, and they went about talking with her as practically as they went about putting locks on doors, building fences, making her a safe door she could open.

‘Did you come over on your bike?’ Diana asked Mike. ‘Do you want to take my car?’

‘No, I’ve got Grandad’s … Ben’s,’ Mike said. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘Are you developing a taste for boys in your old age?’ Constance asked as Mike went out the door.

‘For relatives, I think,’ Diana said, smiling. ‘At least some relatives, and they do seem to be male.’

She picked up Constance’s board and wrote, ‘Read Mike his homework.’

‘Mike,’ Constance said, looking at it.

Diana had just time to clear away the dinner things before Mike came back with Richard. Once again Diana was struck by the contrast between Richard’s head and his body and wondered what it was that attracted so many cartoonists to such distortions. He wasn’t ‘funny-looking’. He might have come from some great king’s court, a wise fool, the role her brother cherished above all others. A tragic fool.

Once they were alone, Richard sat with his large head bowed, his small hands clasped between his knees.

‘I want you to tell me everything you’ve been told by your doctor,’ Diana said. ‘And you must speak up and speak slowly because I don’t hear as well as I used to.’

He raised his head and looked at her through glasses that magnified his black eyes. Then, making an effort to speak clearly, he described his symptoms, the tests he’d been given and the results. His doctor had been matter-of-fact about it, but he had told Richard there was nothing he could do. He had referred Richard to a doctor who was treating AIDS patients.

‘Have you seen him yet?’ Diana asked.

‘No,’ Richard said.

‘Why not?’

‘There’s nothing he can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.’

‘He can’t cure you, that’s true,’ Diana said, ‘but he can help you. There are people with AIDS who have lived for five years, a lot of the time well enough to work.’

‘Work?’ Richard asked. ‘I’m only in my first year of college. I’m not qualified to do anything.’

‘You want to paint.’

He made a bitter sound, perhaps it was even a word caught in his throat.

‘Are you thinking of killing yourself?’ Diana asked.

Richard didn’t answer.

‘I want you to talk to me about it.’