“It doesn’t matter. He had already lied to me about knowing Mum, you see. He let me assume they’d never met. So I can’t be sure of anything he says. He did a painting of Mum.”

“What’s it like?”

“Good. A good likeness. Do you remember when we went to Nice, to visit Mamie and Papie?”

“I remember the ice cream.” His eyes are misty. “And the sea. And Papie’s books about the Pyramids.”

“Well, the painting reminds me of the South of France. There’s sunshine, and an olive tree. And she’s smiling.”

“But not at you,” Tom says after a moment.

“No.”

He nods, absorbing this. A grown-up now, perhaps. Able to contemplate his mother as a woman, lonely, bereaved, seeking consolation.

“Oh, but Mum would never, ever do that!” he bursts out. “I can’t believe you’d even think so!”

Inwardly I smile. Maybe not so grown-up after all.

“Anyway.” I shift position. “I think I’m ready now.”

Tom gets to his feet, opens the top drawer of the chest, brings out a notebook covered, like all the others, in dark blue paper. He hands it to me. “I’m going to cook,” he says, but then hangs in the doorway for a moment. “Archdeacon Frobisher . . . I mean, wow.”

“I’ve given him Bailey.”

His eyes soften. “Ah, way cool, Dad. They were made for each other.”

—

He leaves the room. The dread expands inside me.

I hold the notebook in my hands. On the front, in impeccable handwriting, the title La Zoologie. On the first page, a drawing of a chameleon. Once again the nerves surge through me. I carry on turning the pages. The snouts of the crocodile, alligator, caiman, gharial compared. A blank page, and then there she is with no warning.

TWENTY-TWO

Yvette

9 July 1964

Greenish-blue irises, rimmed by a crinkly circle of hazel flecks that the light turned gold. Pupils small in the sun, whites clear.

It had been a gentle, closed, dry-lipped kiss. When it ended he said that was all he wanted, one kiss.

“Am I supposed to believe you?”

Scrutinizing those interesting irises.

He said, “Does it matter, as long as I behave?”

A pragmatic approach.

—

We walked down the hill together. He held my hand when I climbed over the stiles. Making it slightly more difficult. I didn’t tell him so. He was playing a part already. We didn’t talk very much. The important thing was, we knew that we could if we wanted to. We knew that we could say anything we liked to each other. There was no pretense.

Bridie was still in the garden when we got back. She waved at us through the window as if nothing had happened.