‘Plate, actually, it’s plate.’ Laura’s double denigrated the spoon, replaced it on the stall. Claud felt the hairs of his neck rise or, he told himself, they rose metaphorically.

‘Hullo, Nicholas.’ Claud’s mother had come up behind him. ‘How are you and Emily? How is Laura?’

‘We are all so-so, just about so-so.’

Claud was as glad as he had sometimes been as a child to see his mother. ‘Hullo, Mother. Can I sell you something?’ He felt an unusual need to keep her close to him.

‘I have been looking at that old kitchen machinery. D’you think it still works? Fascinating stuff.’

‘Is this your son, Margaret? D’you think he’s been pinching our spoons? He’s got one here with our crest on it. I’m sure it’s ours.’

‘I hardly think so, Nicholas. I’d no idea you had a crest. Whatever next, should I bow and curtsey? Why don’t you buy it?’

Nicholas Thornby moved away. ‘That’s a mischievous old man,’ said Margaret.

‘M-m-m.’

‘Laura’s uncle, or so they say.’

‘What else could he be?’ asked Claud. ‘The likeness is striking.’

‘What indeed,’ said Margaret Bannister.

‘Do you think the spoon was his? Most of this stuff comes from Laura; she brought it from their attic.’ Claud felt uneasy.

‘Then don’t let on. Let him buy it if he wants it back.’ Claud was heartened by his mother’s robust attitude.

‘I think he may have been responsible for my black eye,’ Claud whispered.

‘Oh, I wouldn’t go as far as that,’ Margaret demurred. She wanted to ask him whether he was enjoying his new venture, but did not want to seem interfering. She was afraid of embarrassing her son; he was such a touchy fellow. She felt she should buy something from his stall, but all the little objects repelled her. She felt, standing by his stall, that she was barging in on his independence. She would do better to move away. ‘I am planning to sell all my outmoded kitchen gadgets to that man over there,’ she said.

Claud gaped. In his novel she cherished her gadgets, her life was ruled by them; she did not get rid of them. He felt a sharp pang of abandonment.

Margaret went on, ‘I have so much junk; I shall unload it on him and there’s plenty about the house that you may like for your stall.’

‘That will be lovely,’ said Claud dully.

It won’t be lovely, it will be a nuisance, thought Margaret. She had no confidence in herself as a parent. Other people seem to be at ease with their children, she thought, why can’t I? ‘I shall have a grand clearance, a clean sweep when I move,’ she said, pretending to be bold.

Claud gasped. He had not realised that her departure was imminent; he had visualised it months, maybe years, ahead, that meanwhile she would be around to provide ideas for the novel. Damn her, he thought, can’t she see I need her? Then why can’t I tell her? If she were Laura, it would be simple. He watched his mother as she moved away.