It was impossible not to be flattered and charmed by their interest, to blossom and expand in their company and become the interesting woman they thought she was. And besides, there was Margaret, who was either a perfectly ordinary child, or uniquely, miraculously special. Whichever she was, she had stirred in Jean a longing she had thought safely buried.

Having accepted, Jean had now acquired two new problems: how to manage the abandonment of her mother for the best part of Sunday, and how to reciprocate in due course. The solution to the first came providentially one evening as she cycled home from a doctor’s appointment. Ahead of her, toiling up the hill carrying several distended string bags of shopping, was Winnie Melsom, an acquaintance of her mother’s from the days when she used to attend church.

There had been a disagreement about the annual collection of Christmas gifts for the poor children of the parish. Someone had suggested that hand-knitted toys, stuffed with chopped-up nylon stockings, were not hygienic. Mrs. Swinney, who had enjoyed making these little dolls, had taken umbrage and stopped attending. She was not a religious woman and had never much liked the services anyway, so it was no great hardship.

Jean pedalled faster and drew alongside Mrs. Melsom, who looked up fearfully at this interruption.

“Hello. Why don’t I help you with those?” Jean said, slipping down from her bicycle and relieving the struggling woman of her bags, putting one in her pannier and hanging the other two from the handlebars.

“Oh, you are kind,” said Mrs. Melsom, who had taken a moment or two to recognize Jean and recover from the idea that she was being robbed in broad daylight. “I made the mistake of buying rather more than I could carry. I’m glad you came past.”

They continued to walk up the hill together, Jean pushing the bicycle. Mrs. Melsom lived in one of the Victorian cottages on Keston Road, some way farther than Jean needed to go. She remembered that there was a daughter, Ann, who lived overseas, like Dorrie. The pain of separation had once been a bond between the two mothers—up to a point. Unlike Dorrie, Ann made regular trips home.

“How is Ann?” Jean asked.

“Oh, very well. I had a letter from her just yesterday. She writes every fortnight.”

“So does Dorrie,” Jean replied, determined to keep their end up, for her mother’s sake rather than Dorrie’s.

It had been true once, but now even that meager sacrifice was apparently too much to ask. The Kitale social scene—tennis, cocktails, play-reading—had crowded out even that small act of filial observance. Jean felt the familiar churning resentment and tried to suppress it. It would only give her dyspepsia.

“I’ve been meaning to call on your mother. I heard from someone, I can’t remember who, that she doesn’t get out much anymore.”

“No. She’s not terribly steady on her feet. She’s lost confidence, I’m afraid.”

This was not the whole story, but a portion of it that could be offered up to outsiders without embarrassment.