“In that case I should think you’d recognise that element.”

“Recognise it, yes.” I was close to saying too much again. “Is the painting in the catalogue?” I hoped aloud.

“I’m afraid not.”

“And it isn’t in any of the books about her, dad.”

“Can you confirm what I told your father?”

The attendant was just a few years older than Roy, as far as I could judge, and I felt as though they were turning their youth on me. “I think she’s right,” Roy said. “I think Bell would too.”

As words struggled to escape me I managed to say just “You’re both wrong about this painting.”

“Honestly, dad, your aunt never put the face in. I know Bell would have pointed it out if she had.”

Yet again I had to suppress a response, saying only “Why do you think she never painted it?”

“It’s consistent with her style,” the attendant said. “Another enigma she’s left us.”

“Unless the subject didn’t want to be recognised.” When Roy and the attendant kept their reactions to themselves I said “That’s how this painting looks to me.”

“You aren’t suggesting anybody touched it.” In case my silence wasn’t a denial the attendant said “Nobody could have without being seen.”

“Are we finished now, dad?”

I’d said all I could risk saying, and it hadn’t been enough. It had achieved nothing except to embarrass my son. As I gave up, the attendant said “I promise you we look after your aunt’s work, and I’m sure that’s true of every gallery that shows it.”

Though none of this had been the point I felt bound to say “Thanks for the thought.”

As Roy hurried downstairs, possibly to demonstrate vigour, he said “You weren’t very nice to her, dad.”

“I didn’t realise you cared.” When he left this unanswered I said “Where shall we have lunch? You’ve not gone vegetarian, have you?”

“Why would I? Bell doesn’t need me to be.”

I stifled my response as I led the way along the colonnade to a dockside fish and chip emporium. Each fish overhung both ends of the cardboard container it was served in, and Roy attacked his with an enthusiasm I found heartening. It nerved me to ask “Are you beginning to think about moving on?”

“Can’t we sit and finish it?”

“Not lunch. Moving on from Bella.”

His laden fork hovered halfway to his mouth. “Why should I?” he retorted more than asked.

“You seemed quite taken with the young woman at the Tate.”

He saw off the mouthful before speaking. “Dad, maybe you just don’t get how relationships work.”

Once again I was on the brink of saying far more than would be wise or useful, but he’d provoked me to enquire “You said Bella doesn’t need you to be vegetarian. What does she need?”