I avoided Greer, whose breath of dislike continued to follow me in spite of my attempts to garner her favour. One morning I came across her in the hall. She did not acknowledge me, but as she continued on her way she moved deliberately too close and her heel caught my foot, causing a flash of pain. I could not hide the flare of irritation.

‘Be careful of your step,’ I said, trying to keep the impatience from my tone.

She stopped and turned fully to face me, something hardening in her gaze. After she had gone, I realized that she left me unaccountably a little afraid.

That day had been too wet to venture outside and Mary and I went to the playroom where I had suggested we draw each other’s likeness.

Mary pinned her paper to the easel and I seated myself on a stool beside her.

‘I shall draw you at your work,’ I said. ‘Let me look at your ears. Yes, they are very big. Like a cat’s. I shall certainly make something of those.’

As I watched, her lips quivered, and in spite of her effort to remain quiet, she let out a laugh.

I regarded her with amazement and an answering joy. It was the first time that I had heard any sound come from her other than a breath.

I laughed too but she reddened and pressed her mouth closed in regret for her outburst. So I picked up my pencil and pretended not to have noticed and did not intrude on her discomfort.

As I drew, I looked up occasionally to study her. Now and then her hand went to touch some part of Bobbity, as if afraid she might have been snatched away. After a while, I concentrated on my own composition and let my pencil follow the lines of her face.

When Mary had finished her drawing she passed it to me – it was a portrait of myself with my short fringe and brown coat with the fox-fur collar. I was flanked by a boy and a girl. The girl was clearly Mary and I had to assume that the boy was William, but it was impossible to say because his face, unlike mine and Mary’s, bore no features. I did not like the way the paper held on to that emptiness. Was this a response to Miss Gillies’ curbing of all discussion about William? Or something else? I tried to read in Mary’s expression some explanation but could find none.

Later, in my own room, I reflected on the absence of William’s likeness. It might be the way she depicted death, and I could not argue – hadn’t I too tried to deal with Clara’s by rubbing the memory of her from me as much as I was able? Even so, it disturbed me and I laid it face-down beneath a hairbrush so that I did not have to witness it again.