“My love for my daughter is not in question,” I said softly. “I asked you about her appearance.”

“Yvie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.” He put his arm around me. “The midwife didn’t even want me to take her in to you. But I insisted that at least you should be able to hold her.”

I sat a while longer reveling in the rare clasp of his arm, even when it began to weigh heavily on my shoulders. I didn’t want to move in case he thought I was shrugging him off.

We sat there quietly until we got cold, and then we both lay down.

At Bridie’s front door I knocked as usual with the dog-wolf knocker that had so daunted me the first time. Its fierceness, I had learned, was only a guard against strangers, and I was no longer a stranger. This time the door swung inward against the pressure of my hand. I pushed it all the way open. Bridie was in the kitchen: I could see her framed in the doorway of the hall, sitting with her hands resting on the table. She was wearing her pink rubber gloves.

“Yvette?” she said without moving her head. “Come in, won’t you, dear.”

I walked into the kitchen pulling off my coat, my hair wild from the wind. I had taken to bringing small gifts on my visits. This time it was a tub of cockles fresh that morning from my fishmonger, she and Pat being partial to shellfish, so I went straight to her refrigerator and put them in, saying, “The gale today! I nearly got blown off the causeway!” And it was only then, turning around, that I saw the young man on the other side of the kitchen table.

I gave a small gasp. I didn’t know he’d be there this early. I needed time to talk to Bridie, make some uncertain prevaricating noises about the plan, tell her I didn’t really know how to go about describing my imaginary vision. But here he was, leaning over a big piece of paper clipped to a board and making great strokes across it with a piece of charcoal, brushing away a lock of curly reddish-fair hair that was falling over his forehead.

“This is Philip,” said Bridie calmly.

He looked about twenty years old. I should have realized he might be young. I knew Bridie and Pat had started their family late in life.

“How do you do, Philip.” He didn’t reply.

“Ah, you won’t get much from him till he’s finished,” said Bridie. “He doesn’t mean to be rude. Sit down—here, on this side, with me. He won’t be long, he’s drawing fairly lively.”