What they most resented was any hint that there was something freakish about our family. Too many people, swayed by folk wisdom or modish child psychology, took for granted that the loss of their mother was a wound from which they would never recover, and that no father, however loving, could ever take the mother’s place. Even Peggy Gardner, now a paediatrician at Guy’s Hospital in London, seemed to hold this view. Whenever she visited Shepperton she gazed tolerantly at the untidy rooms cluttered with the children’s drawings and projects, as if the confusion reflected the deep crisis within this stricken family.

Peggy had never married, despite a long line of men friends and an easy knack with children. Miriam had vaguely distrusted her, aware that Peggy was the first woman I had ever needed and that our relationship went far beyond the possibilities of sex. At the same time she was curious to see behind the handsome self-control that Peggy showed to the world. Bourgeois life had claimed Peggy—good sense, tolerance, and understanding had totally corrupted her.

Six months after our return from Spain she called in to see us on the way back from a child-care conference in Bristol. Still in her professional mode, briefcase in hand, she sat smiling on the sofa while Lucy made room for her. Surrounded by Lucy’s full parade of dolls and bears, arranged in meticulous order of seniority, Peggy faintly resembled a stuffed toy herself. As always, I could see that my motherless children reminded her of our days together in Lunghua.

“That’s nice, Lucy.” Peggy beamed at the row of dolls. “I’m in the middle of a lovely little family.”

“You’re not in the family,” Lucy warned her. “But you’re the oldest.”

“And the wisest,” I added.

Lucy straightened a battered kangaroo. “Mrs. Roo’s much wiser—she told Daddy’s fortune.”

“And what was that, Lucy?”

“He’s going to live for a hundred years.”

“That’s wonderful. I think he’s going to live forever.”

“No,” Lucy said, her eyes fixed on mine. “He won’t live forever. But nearly forever…”

When Lucy had gone, Peggy smiled at the contingent of battered but cheerful dolls as if it were a model of my own family.

“Lucy’s a dear—they all are. You’ve done an amazing job. How on earth do you manage to write?”

“They go to school.”

“But when they’re home? It’s a perpetual riot.”

“I like it.” I felt myself being pushed into a familiar corner. “Some writers listen to Vivaldi. I like to hear my children playing. There’s nothing abnormal in that.”

“It seems to work. You’ve been very brave.”

“Peggy!” Irritated, I pulled the glass of wine from her hand. “For God’s sake, men are capable of loving their children.”

“Not the ones I see at Guy’s.”