“And you’ve looked after her ever since?”

“More or less. It was clear that one of us girls would have to. Whoever married first would get away. And that was Dorrie.”

The thought of her sister prompted, as always, a mixture of conflicting emotions, principally rancor and envy, but also powerful, protective love, and grief at the distance between them. She gave Howard a brief account of Dorrie’s situation in Kitale, trying not to betray too much of her sense of injustice.

“Another abandonment,” was his observation. “It must have hit your mother hard.”

“Yes. Missing out on the grandchildren. A further blow.”

“Did you ever see your father after he left?”

“Once. I went up to his office to ask for some money. He was a fruit wholesaler at Covent Garden, but he’d let the business get into debt. He was terribly apologetic and ashamed. It was horrible to see—we’d always got on so well before. He said he still loved Dorrie and me, but we were adults now, and he’d met someone else and that was that. He gave me all the cash in the office that he’d been about to bank. It wasn’t very much. About twenty pounds.”

“What an unhappy story,” said Howard. “Men can be very selfish.”

“And yet for the previous twenty years or so they seemed happy. To me, anyway. But who really knows what goes on in a marriage?”

“Who indeed?”

Jean glanced at him but he kept his eyes on the road and his face was expressionless.

“And most men aren’t selfish. My uncle paid for Dorrie’s wedding and helped us to get our house in Hayes. I thought Mother might be able to make a fresh start somewhere new where no one knew us. She was so ashamed of being deserted; she always felt the people in Gipsy Hill were gossiping and pitying her.

“But then about a month after we settled into our new house, we were at the movies and a woman in the line stopped us and said hello. It was one of our old neighbors who had moved around the corner. She was just trying to be friendly, but it was the worst thing that could have happened; Mother stopped going out almost entirely.”

Howard shook his head. “Does your uncle still help out?”

“He lives in Harrogate, so he’s a bit far away. We used to go on vacation there every year, but he’s not in the best of health now. Anyway, we manage. My salary pays for the essentials. He still sends us a money order for birthdays and Christmas.”

At this remark about money—one of the unmentionables—Jean felt suddenly embarrassed. And yet it was nothing, really, compared to the revelations that had gone before. She was aware of the risk she had taken in unburdening herself so freely, but the relief was so powerful she couldn’t regret it.

“I’ve never discussed this with anyone before. I’m sorry for rambling on.”

“Please don’t apologize. I’m honored that you felt you could talk to me.”