‘See you soon, perhaps?’ suggested Margaret. It would be nice to be friends with someone who thought so highly of Claud, someone who seemed to understand what you said.

‘Not for a long, long time. My mother is getting a housekeeper, she will have no need of my visits.’

‘Ah.’ They walked along the street to Laura’s car. Margaret now wondered whether she was not relieved that Laura would not be around? There were a lot of things she would like to ask, though. What sort of life did she lead in London? How did she manage? How did she know that Claud had talent? What made her so sure? What was Claud like in bed? She was sure Laura had been to bed with him. She did not give the impression that her sex life was ended; did she have a lover in London? What was it like for a young man of twenty-three with a woman of forty-five? Or for a woman of forty-five with a young man of twenty-three?

‘It must be nice,’ she said.

‘What?’

Margaret said, ‘Nothing,’ but she thought rather wistfully that Laura was getting something much more enjoyable with Claud than what she had experienced with Claud’s father. ‘He was so often drunk,’ she muttered, and hoped Laura had not heard; she should not have drunk so much wine.

‘Here is my car,’ said Laura, who had heard and would presently ponder on the risks of amateur psychologists. She put the cat basket on the back seat.

‘Will he find a publisher?’ When Margaret was anxious, she looked like Claud.

‘I am sure he will.’

‘Will you find him one?’

‘Claud’s work has nothing to do with me, Margaret, you must know that.’

‘It’s true that he used to say that writing was what he wanted to do.’

‘Well, then—’

‘There were times when he was sulky and unpleasant.’ In her mind Claud’s mother multiplied the one scene with Claud into many.

‘Now he is doing what he wants, he is happy, he will change.’

‘You don’t know much about psychology.’

‘Maybe not. Well, goodbye. I must be off.’ Laura kissed Margaret’s cheek. She got into her car. Margaret walked ahead along the street. From behind she resembled Claud. It was something about the hunch of her shoulders, the length of stride.