I cannot tell if your slip over Julian’s name is deliberate. You take a letter from its envelope.

“Cleeve House! Do you remember old Squire Bell? That horse’s hoof he had made into an ashtray. What a way to commemorate your favorite animal!”

“Billy.” I am pleading with you now. “Do you remember that promise I made you?”

Still you ignore me. I know what you are doing, digging yourself into your story. I listen to your voice prattle on until it is time for me to leave. It is too dangerous to travel at night. Your body feels frail in my arms as I kiss you goodbye. For a moment I long to stay and stretch out beside you in front of the fire, feeding you thick slices of toast as I did when we were girls. Instead, I walk to my car and drive away.

It is your gardener who telephones. I hear his voice as if from a great distance. I replace the receiver and stare at the jug of flowers on the hall table. I do not know what to do with these words. They ricochet round my head yet they make no sense. Things are slipping away from me: the hall table and all the objects on it are careering out of reach. I lean back against the wall to steady myself. I see you standing on the riverbank, casting about for stones to fill your pockets. I feel the paralyzing cold as you wade in, the weight of your wet clothes as you force yourself forward. The water is in my mouth, my lungs, as the river drags us under. This time I cannot escape. The darkness has engulfed the picture. I have no will to defeat it.

12

I AM FOUR YEARS OLD, RUMMAGING THROUGH MOTHER’S work basket in the drawing room in St. Ives. Mother is sewing in her chair. For once, she and I are alone. I pull out one of her shawls and drape it over my shoulders. The shawl is soft and warm and smells of the lavender water Mother dabs on her wrists and temples whenever she is tired. I imagine I am a queen dressing for some important state occasion and tug at Mother’s skirt to look. When she sees what I am wearing she tears the shawl away. In an angry voice she tells me her shawl is not for playing in and sends me out of the room. I stumble into the garden, trying not to cry. Thoby finds me and pulls me onto the grass, where we lie with our arms laced round each other’s neck. I feel soothed and comforted, and as I gaze up at the clouds I spy angels. Then a shadow falls and you try to lie between us. I turn over and press my fists into my eyes. When I look again, you are on top of the garden wall with Thoby, waving.