We’ll see about that, Julia said.

I’m not sleeping with her! cried Eden.

It was an indignity to be resisted, the lumpy face of Connie Tiarks that lurked there frightened by the door, the fluffed-out hair released from bows. Eden screamed. They would not touch her. It was a resistance of passion, like everything she did, the dark, emphatic face that failed to contain its own emotions. She sat there screaming with passion in bed.

I don’t want, wailed Connie thinly, I don’t want to get into her bed.

The doorway that was no protection, half-way between two strange rooms, was still kinder, even its draught. There was less hostility in air.

I don’t want to sleep anywhere, she whimpered.

It was a soft, uncertain crying next to Eden’s screams.

What’s all this? asked Mrs Macarthy.

She stood in the doorway, the plushy contours, and the hand that held the hot water bottle to her face.

It’s about the bed, Julia said, as much as to say she knew from the start.

Mrs Macarthy stood looking uncertain whether to be annoyed or pained. Her lips began to munch on words. You were warned by the working of her black moustache.

You’re an abominable child, Eden, she said, and you heard the water rumble loosely inside the half-filled rubber bottle. As if I don’t do all I can to make you children comfortable.

Mrs Macarthy often said this, not so much to make it known as to reassure herself. Like her frequent reminder that she loved children. She could never remind herself enough.

This is most provoking, she said. Nobody thinks I might be in pain. And the beds aren’t aired, she said. I owe it to the child’s mother not to put her in an unaired bed.

She’s not coming in mine, said Eden.

She sat clutching a handful of sheet.

Nobody asked you, said Julia. I tell you what I’ll do, mum, if you like. I’ll make up the sofa in the dining-room. Connie can sleep there just for tonight.

It was just about settled, in spite of Mrs Macarthy’s expression of debate.

Yes, she said. That is an idea. Yes, Julia. We shall do that!

Her hand was a plump hot water bottle. She was a series of water bottles, in plush. Tonight she was all vagueness. She was not herself. She was enjoying the luxury of neuralgia and the sympathy that nobody gave.

Yes, said Mrs Macarthy, giving it a broody emphasis. In the dining-room. Come along, Constance. We shall leave this ungrateful little girl at once.

Then they all went out. Upright in bed, Eden listened, heard the slipperless pattering of the girl called Connie Tiarks. Perhaps she would catch cold. Perhaps she would die. Eden fastened her mouth. She deliberately disposed of Connie Tiarks. It was a simple, unemotional act. She performed this frequently in her mind over the people she disliked. Death was the clicking of the catch.

Julia came presently to turn out the light. She did not look towards the bed. She turned out the light on an empty room, whisked herself away into darkness, the harassed hair and the red face. Julia got red in the face when angry, Eden pondered in the formless room. Alone, her shoulders began to wilt. She wanted the reassurance of a face. As if victory in itself were an unsatisfactory end.