“It was a brave decision to keep the baby,” she said, although the alternatives were surely braver, involving as they did more suffering for the mother. “Did you ever consider giving her up for adoption . . . or . . .” She couldn’t say the other word aloud.

“Oh no,” said Mrs. Tilbury. “Never that. My mother was a devout Catholic. And she believed the baby was a gift from God.”

“She wasn’t worried what the neighbors would think of an unmarried mother? People can be very quick to judge.”

“We were already outsiders anyway.” She stopped suddenly. “That’s Margaret,” she said, her vigilant maternal ear picking up some signal inaudible to Jean.

Only now could she hear the clang of the gate and the scuff of shoes on the path. A moment later the back door creaked open.

“We’re in here,” Mrs. Tilbury called. “Come and say hello.”

A girl in a green gingham school dress and straw hat came into the room, flushed and panting from the heat.

“May I go to Lizzie’s?” she asked. “They’ve got kittens.” She pulled up as she noticed Jean.

“This is Margaret,” said Mrs. Tilbury, her face glowing with pride at her own creation. “This lady is Miss Swinney.” Her Swiss accent rendered it “Miss Svinny.” “She works for a newspaper.”

“Hello,” said Margaret, taking off her hat and shaking out her hair. She eyed Jean suspiciously. “Have you ever met Queen Elizabeth?”

“No,” admitted Jean. “But I did meet Harold Macmillan, when he was elected MP for Bromley.”

Margaret looked unimpressed. She has probably never heard of Harold Macmillan, Jean thought. And why should she, at ten years old? Jean couldn’t help smiling at the delightful resemblance between mother and daughter. She had never seen so disconcerting a likeness between two people who were not twins. In Margaret’s cloudy curls and delicate features she could see a faithful reproduction of the pretty child Mrs. Tilbury had been twenty years ago. It was no struggle to believe they belonged entirely to each other. If someone else had played a part in Margaret’s conception, he had left no visible trace.

“Well, there’s no doubting she’s yours,” said Jean. “She’s the image of you.”

Margaret and her mother looked at each other and laughed, pleased. The little girl was still young enough to be flattered by the comparison. In a few years, thought Jean, it will be odious to her.

Mrs. Tilbury went to the piano and picked up the photograph Jean had noticed earlier.

“This is me when I was just a little older than Margaret is now,” she said, holding it up.

Margaret obliged by assuming the same wistful expression, eyes raised heavenward. There was nothing to tell them apart, except perhaps that melancholy aura that always seemed to surround the subjects of old photographs.

“Would you mind lending me this?” Jean asked, imagining how the two images might look side by side in the paper. “We could take one of Margaret in the same pose, if you’re agreeable.”