Rose had said, “Whatever you like,” and she couldn’t help laughing when she looked at him, because she was always so glad to see him.

“Oh, I don’t know, I think a little rest,” he said, and he put his hand around the back of her neck, under her hair, and gave her a little shake. “Only one more day now, Rose,” he said, “and then we’ll see what we will see.”

She was delighted, because she knew he was referring to the present he had promised her, which was to be a surprise. And Jimmy, who was only five then, was sitting by himself on the floor in front of the fire, and got up and came over to them, because he knew that there was to be something for him as well, even though it was Rose’s birthday. And the father had bent down and said, “Yes, Jimmy, there’ll be something nice for you, too.” Then he had started up the stairs, and she had stood at the bottom with Jimmy beside her and watched him go up. He had not looked back, but then, of course, he had not known they had come to the foot of the stairs and were looking after him.

Her mother had not gone upstairs to see him as she usually did when she came back to the kitchen from the little shop that she kept in what had once been the front sitting room of the house. First the mother had been busy getting the tea, and then, when it was ready, she said she would let him sleep on awhile. And then the woman next door had come in and had begun talking. He had died alone. He must have been terribly frightened, but he had been very brave. He had not cried out or called anybody’s name. They had all been downstairs and they had heard nothing. But her mother and the woman next door had been laughing and talking. He could have called out and they might not have heard him. Maybe he had tried to call, “Rose, Rosie!” “Rose” meant that he was calling her, and “Rosie” meant that he was smiling, calling her name for the second time. There had never been any need for him to call her twice. She had always run to the sound of his voice. He had always come into the house calling her.