“I will speak to Dr. Seton again.” Stella’s concern is clear. I have no choice but to continue.

“I think she said ‘Stand up straight, little goat.’” We are two mothers, joined in solicitude for our charge.

“I wonder what she meant.” Stella reaches for the scissors and snips the end of her thread. She holds her shirt up to inspect it.

“I’m relieved Father has agreed that Adrian should not go away to school. I don’t think he would stand it.” She folds the shirt neatly and picks up the next garment on the pile.

“And what about you, Nessa? How are you getting on with your drawing? I liked your picture of the lilies.” I blush with pleasure. The collar I am working on suddenly seems aureoled with light. I think of the lilies, the intricate tracery of their petals, their solid, trumpet-like shapes. For the first time in weeks I sense a glimmer of hope.

You are standing on the windowsill, your arms stretched out like an avenging angel. You stare at me as I come toward you. You shriek that if I advance any closer you will hurl yourself through the windowpane. Your hand clutches for something to smash the glass. On the floor there are the remains of a plate you have flung at the wall. Your shrieking stops and I see your body tremble. Slowly, tenderly, you let me lead you to your bed.

I sketch an apple that Stella has left on the table. You are lying face down and appear to be asleep. Every now and then I hear you whimper. You have not eaten for two days. The light streams through the window, casting bars of shadow on the floor.

“It will dissolve us all.” I stop drawing and look up. You have raised yourself onto your elbows and are gazing at the light flooding onto your pillow.

“Would you like me to close the curtains?” My voice is a whisper. These are your first distinct words for some time.

“Yes.”

I stand up and pull the curtains to, then come round to the side of your bed. You turn and face me.

“She told me to stand up straight.” You say the words as if they are a question to which you despair of ever being able to find an answer.

“Do you think the birds were singing for her?”

I sit on the bed and stroke your hair. You are as vulnerable in my arms as a child.

Three days a week I escape. Oh, the delirious happiness of banging the front door behind me and launching into the teeming bustle of the streets! The air fans my cheek as I cycle along Queen’s Gate. I tear past strolling couples, nannies with their charges, gray-suited men on their way to work, and feel as if I have a purpose in life.