‘Hello, Beatriz,’ Ali said. She knelt beside her and wrapped one of her frail hands in both of her own. The skin was as thin as a corn husk, and as dry. ‘Can I get you something? Coffee, maybe? Some raisin toast?’ But Beatriz shook her head sadly, as if those simple pleasures – drinking, eating – were lost to her now. Beatriz, the busy, beatific, beating heart of the McCormack household, had decided enough was enough; there was so much to worry about that, instead, she wouldn’t worry about anything at all. She’d just gently rock herself into another dimension and spend time in her head with the people of her distant past, and Ali grieved for her, and knew she was in part responsible for dear Beatriz’s decline. She’d been self-absorbed, mired in her own difficulties, and she’d made Beatriz suspicious these past months: she’d made Michael miserable and she’d sent Stella off to Europe with a steady calm that, to Beatriz, was inexplicable. Since Stella left, there’d been no structure to Beatriz’s day, no child to nurture, no lovely, growing girl to spoil with sweet pastries and cuddles, and meanwhile, rumbling on like the distant drums of war, there was the ongoing low-level trauma of Ali and Michael’s wounded marriage. They’d tried, when they remembered to try, or had sufficient command over their feelings, to protect Beatriz from the zigzag trajectory of their shattered emotions, but look at her now, thought Ali: the old lady had eyes and ears and decades of wisdom; she knew everything, of course she did.

‘Listen, Beatriz, I spoke to Stella today.’

‘You told me,’ Beatriz said flatly.

‘I know, but you were sleepy and I didn’t say what she’d said. Guess where she’s headed next?’

Beatriz sighed and shifted in her chair. She looked down at her hand in Ali’s, and then up at the crucifix on the opposite wall. ‘Tell me,’ she said with no interest.

‘Portugal!’ Ali said. ‘She’s going to make her way down through Spain by train. She’s going to send you a postcard when she gets to Porto. She’ll send you a picture of the Douro twinkling at night.’

‘And is she still alone?’

Yes, thought Ali, alone, and perfectly fine. ‘No, no, there’s a little gang of them,’ she told Beatriz. ‘Friends she’s met along the way.’

Beatriz turned her head to look at Ali. ‘Is she still alone?’ she said again.

‘OK, yes,’ Ali said, because she’d told enough lies in this house for a lifetime. ‘But, Beatriz, look, she’s so happy and well, and she sends her love to you.’

From downstairs, Michael’s voice – brightly gung-ho, to show he was no longer in a funk – reached them through the closed door. ‘Who’s hungry?’ he shouted. ‘Dinner’s ready down here.’