Mum and Dad were all thank you, Mr Wetheral, and it’s remarkable, we don’t know how you do it and Jed was all yeah, I guess it’s a pretty good likeness but you lot see me a lot more than I do so you’ll be the better judges, and Trig was all it’s just like him, it’s just like him, it’s just exactly like him.

But me? Nothing came out of my mouth at all. It wasn’t just Jed himself; it was every part of the painting. The two roses carved into the top of the chair he was sitting on, curved and fine and wooden. The way Jed’s feet dropped in towards each other, shoes resting heavy on the rug. And Grandad Cruise’s watch – ten minutes past one exactly.

Jed was an eldest. It was good that we’d got the portrait done. It was right. But was anyone ever going to pay that much attention to me? Would anyone ever paint even a tiny picture of me?

“What do you think, Maggie?” Mr Wetheral’s question grappled its way through the other voices.

What did I think?

“Me?”

“Yes. I’d be interested to hear your opinion.”

Why would he be interested in my opinion?

“Really?” I said.

“Yes, really. Do you like it?”

I looked again at the picture. The faded velvet curtains in the background. Jed’s hair uneven on his forehead.

I didn’t say yes. I didn’t say no.

“It’s like I can feel the solid petals of the roses,” I said. “Like they’re really wood, not just paint. And I can hear Grandad’s watch ticking. And the dirt on the bottom of the shoes – that’s real dirt, isn’t it? And his hands…”

His hands. If I touched them, they’d be warm. They just would. For absolutely certain.

“But it makes me feel small,” I said. “Like I don’t count.”

Mr Wetheral nodded.

He looked sad.

“Probably just because it’s so big,” I said.

He brushed some plaster dust from the front of his shirt. “Well,” he said. “I’d better be off.”

“Here.” Dad picked up the trellicillin. “Don’t forget this. Make sure your mum takes it three times a day, and that she finishes the whole bottle. Doctor Sunita’s written it all on the label.”

“Oh, thank you, that’s wonderful.” Mr Wetheral tucked the bottle into his jacket pocket.

“Not at all,” said Dad. “It’s the least I can do. I mean, this portrait, if we didn’t have it, I just don’t know … I just don’t know how we’d…” Dad ran out of words again. He pulled Jed towards him, scooped his head in close and nuzzled his hair. “My boy,” he said, muffled.

“Get off!”

“What we’re all trying to say,” said Mum, “is thank you, Mr Wetheral, for the wonderful portrait.”