‘Constance,’ Diana began, ‘tonight David’s grandsons are going to come and put new locks on the doors. It means you’ll have to ask me to open the door for you when you want to go out. We’re doing it because you wandered out of the house around five this morning and were missing for some hours.’

‘Make your own home into a loony bin in just one easy step,’ Constance said brightly.

‘I don’t like it either,’ Diana said, ‘but you scared me out of my wits.’

‘Is that something new?’ Constance asked.

‘No,’ Diana admitted.

Constance turned away and did not speak again, even when she was spoken to, all through dinner, but she did eat eagerly, unaware that her appetite came from an inadvertent fast of twenty-four hours. David made conversation, but he also let silences fall. Diana sat mortified by Constance’s implication that here was at last the excuse to lock her up as Diana had always wanted to do. How could she explain that in all the years of enduring Constance’s freedom, Diana had come not only to accept but respect it, that locking her up now was as great a defeat for Diana as it was for Constance?

Over dessert, Constance suddenly said, ‘When I can’t remember why I’m so angry, it’s very difficult to stay angry. You’d better tell me whatever it is again.’

‘I’m locking you into the house,’ Diana answered bleakly.

‘How fair she is!’ Constance exclaimed. ‘In her place, would you have answered that question?’

‘I’m not sure I would,’ David admitted with a smile, ‘but she knows you better than I do.’

‘It would be easier to be crazy,’ Constance said.

‘No,’ Diana said, ‘you know it wouldn’t.’

‘Do I?’ It was a genuine question.

‘Yes,’ Diana said.

‘It’s very peculiar having your memory located outside your own head. Diana is remarkably truthful, but it’s still her version of the truth.’

‘Much of which I learned from you,’ Diana reminded her.

‘And you still can’t trust me?’

‘I can’t trust your memory.’

‘Well, neither can I, of course.’

The boys arrived with a great stamping of feet on the front porch, the first indication to any of the occupants of the house that it had been snowing. David opened the door to them as they were taking off their boots, took their damp coats from them and slung them over the banister to dry. They came into the room behind him, tall, flushed young men, smiling.

‘This is your great-aunt Diana, and you already know Constance Crowley. Ben. Mike.’ David presented them with affectionate pride.

‘Aunt Diana,’ Ben said, nodding. ‘Miss Crowley.’

‘Call me Constance, whoever you are.’

‘I’m Ben.’

‘My grandson,’ David added.

Mike stood back a little, imitating his brother’s nod but not speaking.

‘Do get them whatever they’d like to drink,’ Diana said to David.