Julia, he sobbed, against silk.

That made her smooth his hair. Quieter too. As if she was thinking. The little yellow thread of light had whisked away from under the door.

Would you like to get into Mother’s bed? she asked slowly, speaking as much to darkness, and still thinking, her voice. Would Elyot like to sleep with Mother?

He nodded his head against her side, feeling on his cheek the rub of silk.

Very well. Wait a minute, darling, she said.

She turned on a light. She went and looked out on the landing, listening. Then she slammed the door. Her face was still listening when she spoke.

Elyot will keep Mother company, she said.

Even though her voice touched on him, her face was distant, even as she picked him up and put him in the cold, fresh bed. She sighed a lot. It made him wonder again about the noises in the next room, that was now silent, it was flat like rooms at night, they only opened out in the morning. And now in the fresh bed, morning itself was not beyond reach. He sighed too, imitating her.

We’ll soon be asleep, shan’t we? she said with determination.

Yes, he sighed.

And he almost was. He was the silky sigh of darkness that her breast was. He curled his fists against her breast and slept. Poor darling, she said, a long way back, or in sleep. Once he woke to feel a kind of choppy sobbing, that made him wonder, not afraid. He drifted in the warm scenty smell back to his own unconsciousness.

It slipped away easily into odd moments, the night that Mother cried. This was a moment you took out to wonder at, sometimes secretly by yourself, you did not even ask Julia why. But most often you did not think. Because it was mostly walks, and wet days against the windowpane, and Eden screaming, and the doses of syrup of figs, muddy at the bottom of the bottle. Sometimes Julia’s tooth ached. He walked softly, not to hurt the ache.

Is it better, now Julia? he asked.

It’s right up me face, said Julia through a hand.

You ought to have it out, Mother said.

Oh no, mum, said Julia. We’ll give it another try yet.

It puzzled him why she called her mum, as if she was Julia’s mother.

Why do you call her mum? he asked.

Because, said Julia.

She isn’t your mother.

What do you think!

Then why do you call her mum? he asked.

You’re just a silly boy, she said.

She began to put on her hat, that had a bird, like a swallow with a white eye.

It’s time we went for that walk, she said.

Once in the Park, he had pulled off the bird on Julia’s hat. It was like a swallow in front, but at the back it was a yellow, gummy card. He bit his lip when she smacked his legs. He hated Julia and her flat bird. He hated the walks on asphalt. He hated the South Kensington Museum. He hated Eden, who was his sister, they said, pushed by Julia in her shiny pram, which was Eden’s own intimate world. It was not much fun having a sister in a pram. They seldom met on equal ground, except to prepare for skirmishes to come. He trailed by himself round the edge of ponds, the water that was yellow in summer, in winter grey. This was a vaguely consoling sea. He sat on the edge and thought. That is, he let his mind wander, shapelessly, out of reach of the irksome details that forced it into a certain shape, away from the people who did Everything for His Own Good.