Neither woman spoke as they transferred the boxes of junk from the boot of Margaret’s car to Laura’s. Then Laura asked, ‘Does Claud want you to leave the neighbourhood? Does he know you are going?’

‘There is not room for both of us,’ said Margaret.

‘You do not mean you and Claud, do you? You mean you and me.’

Margaret smiled.

‘I shall find out about that girl,’ said Laura, getting into her car.

‘Oh, that.’ Margaret’s smile broadened. ‘She was just the beginning of the rapids.’

Laura started the engine, reached for her safety belt. ‘I am not at all a maternal sort of friend,’ she said.

‘Who wants a maternal friend?’ asked Margaret falsely.

‘Claud? Perhaps Claud does.’

‘He’s not likely to find one, is he?’ Margaret watched Laura go. I wonder what she’s after, she thought. Then, turning back into the house, she thought, I can’t help him. If I stayed on here, I wouldn’t be of the slightest use to him, while Laura will believe in him, give him the courage to write his novel. The trouble with me, she thought honestly, is that I simply cannot believe in this wretched novel, I can’t imagine Claud as a writer.

Standing at the sink, rinsing the mugs she and Laura had used, Margaret experienced the feeling of desolation that had assailed her on Claud’s first day at school; there seemed little difference between Claud aged five and Claud aged twenty-three. His mix of boldness and timidity was unchanged. At five he had kicked her shins when thwarted, screamed for help if injured, twisted away from her. He had also come running for help and reassurance in time of trouble (he did not do that any more). He had expected her to be there if needed. I always was there, she thought as she dried the mugs and hung them on the dresser.

What am I worrying about? He’s a grown man. She unhooked the mug Laura had used. Was there still sugar on the bottom? She rinsed the mug a second time.

Was that lipstick? She looked closely at the mug. She doesn’t use lipstick, her mouth is naturally red. Will she and Claud—? Margaret stood holding the mug. I despise possessive mothers, she thought. If Laura should want him and he should want her?

There’s nothing I can do, she thought. She shrugged her shoulders and replaced the mug on its hook.

Sly of her to find that packet of photos—It never occurred to me to look for—I defended him, didn’t I? I stood up for his independence. Am I jealous? Of Laura? Why did Claud never talk to me about Amy, whoever she is? He never brought her home, Margaret thought resentfully. What am I fussing about? Until Laura came by I was planning to sell up and make my getaway.