“He’s the same matinee idol he always was. People who go on television never grow old—or they grow old in a different way. Some sort of kidney trouble has slowed him down; he wants to give up TV and become a serious psychologist again.”

“Hey, you always said that television was serious! Don’t tell me Dick’s started to think for himself. I used to feel that he was totally under your thumb … Now tell me about yourself. All those books?”

“There’s nothing to tell—that’s the problem. I spent the whole of my adult life with children. Suddenly, when I’m fifty, there’s this colossal vacuum. Mothers feel the same way. Nature hasn’t provided a contingency plan—or, as Dick would say, nature’s contingency plan is death.”

“Rubbish. You’re not going to die. Not this afternoon, anyway. Besides, you’ve got the children, even if they’re not at home. It must be a bit of a relief—how you coped with teenage girls I’ll never know.”

“I always did exactly what they told me. Actually, fathers can be better mothers than you think. It’s mothers who make a hash of their teenage daughters—some of Alice’s and Lucy’s friends went through hell.”

“Well, think about it—all these young men ringing the bell, daughters on the pill, the poor mother finds she’s practically running a brothel. No wonder Peggy disapproved of you. Besides, she wanted to keep you forever in that awful hut … but Miriam would have been proud of Henry and the girls. Do you still think about her?”

I drew my name on the surface of the water. “Now and then—the damned thing is I’ve started to forget what she looked like. Sometimes I try to remember her and it’s like watching someone else’s home movie. I know I shouldn’t say that. Memories of the people you love are supposed to last forever, but often they’re the first to go…”

Sally moved my hand to her breast. She held it there for a moment and then placed it on her lap. The women I had loved were saying goodbye. We lay together in the sun, as the water carried us through the clicking reeds.

*   *   *

The diesel tapped against the deck plates of the lighter, sending its smoky exhaust into the clear estuary air. Cables unwound from the winch and the crown block descended from the sky. Sally and I sat in a saddle of dry sand between two hillocks of grass, the picnic hamper open in front of us. Still wearing her party frock, Jackie squatted between her mother’s legs, smiling in her straight-faced way at the swaying boom of the crane.