After Hattie’s departure, the party ebbs, and guests begin to take their leave. There is a brief flurry of revived energy as an Express Delivery van arrives from Gatwick Airport bearing a large white oblong cardboard box as big as a tombstone containing a sheaf of yellow and wine-brown orchids and a message from Miss Porntip. It is greeted with admiration and disapproval. Deirdre fails in her attempt to find a vase large enough to contain the ostentatious blooms, and goes upstairs to have a little lie-down on the spare bed vacated by Hattie. She falls fast asleep. Jonathan, distracted, drives off to Norwich. Charles also drives off, saying he is going back to the office, but Liz suspects he is going for a little lie-down in Kentish Town. Robert Oxenholme’s car arrives, but Esther says she will not accompany him: she will stay a little to help Liz tidy up. Brian nods off in the large chair in Liz’s study. He tires easily these days.

And so it is that Esther, Alix and Liz, the Evader, the Widow Maker and the Wounded Healer, find themselves drinking tea in Liz’s kitchen, and chewing over the day’s events. Yes, they agree, it had all gone well. The service, the music, the readings. It had been a good turn-out, they had done Stephen proud, and Hattie’s timing had been inspired. A death and a birth. Of course, says Liz, it wasn’t entirely accidental, she had arranged it on purpose. Stage-managed it. A theatrical couple, Hattie and Aaron. In Liz’s view, the baby will be a boy, but Aaron, although he knows, will not tell her. Hattie wants to be surprised, so Liz too will have to wait. Alix is also about to become a grandmother. Ilse is expecting a baby any day now. She knows it will be a girl. She will be called Maia. No, Alix does not know why: some private reason.

They have not met, these three, since their little Italian holiday in the lakes, which they now celebrate. They reminisce, and promise themselves that they should meet more often. Husbands and grandchildren and illnesses and affairs of state must not be allowed to sunder them. Why do they not arrange to take another little holiday? This year is bespoken, but next year, why do they not take a break together? Why do they not go for a walk in the country, as they used to do in the old days? In the old days, they had talked of a walking holiday. They have never done it. If not now, when? And where should it be?

One can go on such holidays in France, in Italy, volunteers Esther. They book your hotels and carry your bags. Liz says she has had enough of abroad, why not try England? Because of the pissing awful weather, says Esther. I mean, look at it.