I thought this talk of sexual misdemeanour might lead us into dangerous territory in view of Lili’s liaison with my husband, although it was refreshing to be with someone who did not, for one moment, think it necessary to tone down her conversation to spare my aged sensibilities. Mrs Raffald was bread, while Lili was croissant—insubstantial and not altogether wholesome, but enjoyable. Despite the increased drinking, and the cigarette smoking which she had led me into, I felt more alive than I had before she returned. I brought the conversation back to the convent.

‘Has Mother Joseph written to Margaret?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Lili, ‘I don’t think so. They don’t go out chasing postulants. She’ll just wait. Marie Claire’s written to Monica. She says they can’t come to the wedding because she’s too busy, but what she means is she doesn’t want to face me. She’s frightened of me.’ Lili sounded smug.

‘It’s just as well,’ I said. ‘If there isn’t going to be a wedding.’

‘I think there’d better not be,’ said Lili.

After she was gone I wondered briefly about her motives in saying that. Most people, for whatever reason, tended to encourage marriages, but then Lili wasn’t much like most people.

Supper was ready for Syl when he came home. I wasn’t hungry but I sat down with him at the end of the dining-room table.

‘I mustn’t be long,’ he said, cutting up his baked mackerel. ‘I’m taking Margaret’s present round to her later.’

I was nervous, but after all I was his mother. I said, ‘Syl, do you think this marriage is a good idea?’ I thought at once I could have phrased that better, or started from a different angle or possibly have kept my mouth shut, but it was too late now.

Ominously, Syl seemed not to be surprised by my question. He drew his eyebrows together but continued eating mackerel, pouring more mustard sauce over it as he spoke.

‘I’m not going to let Margaret down,’ he said.

This quite flummoxed me. I don’t know what I’d expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.

‘What do you mean?’ I asked stupidly.

‘I mean she’s had a tough time,’ said Syl, ‘and I’m not going to let her be hurt any more.’

‘But she’s so young...’ I said.

‘That’s just it,’ said Syl. ‘She needs somebody to look after her. Monica doesn’t understand her, her father deserted her, she was bundled off to school and then off abroad and she needs some sort of security.’

Not a word of love, I thought, as Syl continued to speak in between mouthfuls. How interesting. ‘Have some cheese,’ I offered, as he pushed his plate aside. ‘Cheddar.’

‘I haven’t got time,’ he said, and he went out, leaving me with my mouth open.

What was so surprising about his reaction, I thought, was its extraordinary arrogance. I found it difficult to be really angry with Syl but I heard myself saying ‘Men’ again, under my breath. Here was the same thing, the unquestioning assumption that in the attention of men lay the fulfilment of women.