You walk along the bank searching for stones to fill your pockets. I think of you that day, staring into the fast-flowing river, the still leafless branches of the trees etched against the ghostly gray of the sky. I try to picture what went on inside your head. Did you remember me, Leonard, the children, as you left your stick on the bank and strode out into the swirling water, or were all your thoughts bent on escaping what you could no longer bear to endure?

You see, even after all these years, I wonder if you really loved me.

2

IT IS STELLA WHO WAKES US. THE LIGHT FROM HER candle throws ghastly shadows on the wall. I know at once that it is serious. I sit up in bed, pulling my dressing gown round my shoulders, and slip my feet into my shoes. You wrap yourself in a shawl, shivering with the cold. When we are ready we follow Stella to Mother’s room. At the doorway we hold hands. Father is in a chair by the bed, his head buried in his palms. Dr. Seton is standing by the window, talking to George and Gerald. Two nurses arrange Mother’s pillows. There is a hush as we enter the room. We stay close to Stella, who puts her arm round our shoulders. George comes forward and tells us we must each kiss Mother in turn. He holds out his hand to Adrian and leads him to Mother’s side. I see Adrian stoop to kiss Mother’s cheek, clinging to George’s fingers. As George takes you to the bed Mother’s eyes flick open. She looks at you calmly for a moment. Then her eyes close again.

Now it is my turn. I bend down to kiss Mother’s forehead and hear the awful drag of her breathing. I need her to speak to me. I need her to explain what is happening. I need her to tell me she loves me. Her eyes remain resolutely closed. I feel George’s hand on my arm and allow him to lead me away.

I sit staring at the floor. I cannot bear to look at the bed. I can hear the birds singing outside the window. Opposite me is Mother’s dressing table; I look at her jewelry box, her photographs, her notebook and pen. The mirror is set at an angle and in it I can see Mother’s reflection. Her face is almost translucent in the half-light. I study her as if she is a painting, noting the pallor of her skin, the way the hair parts over her brow. I try to decide how I would draw her. There are dark shadows over the eye sockets, and the bow of the upper lip is so pronounced that the lower lip seems almost to disappear into it.