‘I really don’t quite follow what you mean by “real” world and “unreal”. There is no difference is there? Life is real. All of it. Death is real too, they are inseparable from each other. I think that perhaps what you mean is that we invent parts of it for ourselves, and those pieces, the invented ones, are the only parts which make life bearable; they have a scheme, a plan, because we make them. Real life is so hideously clumsy, unplanned, callous and brutal: is that what you mean, do you think? We have to make the invented parts to get through the real.’ She grubbed up a length of creeping buttercup, stuffed it into the box. ‘That’s really why I rather hate this Uncle Desmond person who is coming to take you both away from me. Do you follow. Like the ship to you, he is the intruding part of real life interrupting my “invented” part. When you go away I shall have to return: and I shan’t very much care for that. While you have been here I have suspended belief, as it were. Just for the time I banished all unpleasing, ugly, distressing things as far as I possibly could, so that we should have a simply lovely “invented” enchanted time, and now of course I can see it coming to an end, and I am resentful, silly, selfish, and sad. Weary too. But that is my invented life, Leni! Not yours. You are far too young yet to have to invent anything to make your life bearable. Look, my dear, how much you have!’

‘You are so certain,’ said Leni.

‘Not about everything. Just that.’

‘Certain and sure. Marcus said that you and Sir Charles know just who you are, that you always have done and always will; that there are no doubts.’

‘Does he? Does he indeed?’ said Cuckoo. ‘How wondrously simple. The older we get the less certain we become; that’s my experience. Hence the need to “invent”, you see. To smother doubt. But at your age one is so much more confident about whom one is and where one is going and why; you haven’t had the time yet, my dear, to become disillusioned. You will see. Doubts come later.’

Leni stuck her fork into the dry earth, pushed hair from her forehead. ‘Mine have come already,’ she said.

‘Nonsense, foolish child!’ Cuckoo wrenched about among the weeds, pulling at buttercup and groundsel. ‘Nonsense! You just feel abandoned because that faithless betrayer has gone off to see the Film Star; which I very, very much doubt. He probably feels rather uncomfortable now it’s all over … they usually do. Guilt. No. I think he’s gone to see how the vulgar-rich live. Curious. I’d be curious myself: if I didn’t already know. That’s all. I think that you know, very precisely, exactly who you are.’

‘Yes,’ said Leni staring through the pea-sticks. ‘I do.’