“Good. There you are. Julian. Come in and have some tea.” It is only as I say his name that I realize my mistake. Julian was Thoby’s first name, and in my dismay I have confused the two. You have never approved of my wish to call Julian after Thoby. The boys file in and settle themselves on the floor beside you. They spar and jostle for your attention. You tease them about their wild appearance, find sweets for them in your bag. They laugh and clap and hang on your every word. I begin to fear they are growing away from me.

I say very little for the remainder of your visit. You tell a story, and the boys sit tame and quiet beside you. I notice a ring I have not seen before on one of your fingers. When the time comes for you to leave, I watch you walk down the drive, your arm tucked in Leonard’s, the boys dancing in attendance behind you.

I ask you to sit for me. Somehow I justify the time. I set my easel in the garden, sensing that my task will be easier if I suggest you simply daydream in a chair. I know how you hate being looked at. I block out the frame of your chair, the contours of your body. I work the warm sienna of your dress, the flame of your scarlet tie. As I paint, my feeling of isolation starts to recede. All the hurts and disappointments I have had to bear gradually diminish, until what I am left with is the thing before me and the rhythmic movement of my hand. I think of Mother in her deck chair in the garden at St. Ives, her eyes closed as she allowed herself a few minutes’ peace after lunch. My brush restores the caress of hands, the longed-for shelter of loving arms. I fill out the brim of your hat, the band of your hair framing your face. I form the arch of your nose, the bow of your mouth. When the features of your face are done I stop and examine the effect. I have failed. I pick up my knife and scrape the paint clear. I gaze at your closed eyelids, the back of your head resting against the chair. I wash the entire oval of your face in a flesh tone. I look again. This time your expression is a blank. I set my brush aside. I have painted what you are to me.