I know where you are heading and try again for the necklace. You jump off the bed and dart to the window. Before I can say anything, you have climbed onto the ledge, the beads swaying from your fingers.

“Goats are good at climbing, remember. And at leaping.” I watch you measure the distance to the chair, and I dart to the window to stop you. You laugh as I catch you round your waist. Your weight drags us to the floor. You clasp my wrists and let your head fall onto my chest. I feel your lips nuzzle my cheek but I am in no mood to baby you. Eel-like, I twist on top of you and use my shoulder as a clamp. Then I seize your fist and prize the necklace loose.

You wait a week for your revenge. We have been walking in Kensington Gardens and are exhilarated by the gift of a balloon from the old woman who sits at the entrance. As we round the corner into Hyde Park Gate we argue about whether or not we should tell Mother about the gift. Your list of reasons for keeping silent is compelling, and as we hang our coats in the hall I acquiesce in the hiding of the balloon in the chest. We remove several rugs in order to accommodate the balloon, and when, later, Mother finds them in our room I feel obliged to confess.

“Is this true, Virginia?” Mother hates deceitfulness and her tone is stern. You glare at me before you answer.

“What you see before you, Mother,” you say, with a spiteful glitter in your eye, “is a devil and a saint!” You take a mock bow then point to me. To my amazement, instead of chastising you, Mother laughs. That evening your phrase is repeated to Father, who claps his hands at your wit. Soon he is calling me “saint” and winking at you. George, Gerald, even Thoby join in the taunt. I feel constrained by your tag but do not know how to retaliate. Any suggestion that you might be a devil seems to slip from everyone’s mind.

The first week of July. The trunks are packed ready in the hall. We crowd into the carriage that will take us to the station, our arms full of books, spades, butterfly nets, cricket bats, tins of crayons, straw hats. I sit pushed up against the window. The swallows weave and dip like runaway shuttles against the cerulean blue of the sky. All winter we have waited for this moment.

Inside the train everyone talks at once. We count the stations, straining for a glimpse of the sea. Father sets his books aside and takes hold of Mother’s hand.