And so it began. What began? Impossible to say simply what began, but I’ll try.

THE NEXT DAY I told Emily to take Joseph a plate of bread and butter, jam, and cheese every morning. I helped Emily prepare the tray, that first time. I told her it must be enough for breakfast and lunch. I told her to add whatever else she wanted. A hard-boiled egg, any leftovers. A bottle of milk. I would add an extra bottle of milk from now on, to our order. Later I had Emily take down an old kettle for his room, and I bought him tea, and then I said to Emily, you know, just take him leftovers from dinner too. I worried. Did he have enough to eat?

I took the dogs later that morning, called them, and they bounded down the grass behind me. I knocked on Joseph’s door. The dogs wagged their tails in their usual way, friendly dogs I’ve said before, Joseph stood on the stone step at his door, how I remember that. He patted them, and laughed. I laughed too. Chester and Teddy, I said. And I felt some relief then, as I said goodbye, have a good day, Joseph, and I walked back up the hill, the dogs having lost interest in Joseph, in me, already, gone off to look for other things in the trees, under the trees.

It became routine: Emily walked down to the garden room twice a day, in the morning, and in the evening. I’d see her in the evening from my bedroom window, walking carefully down the grass, her blue uniform against the green, and her white cap, carrying her tray. Emily’s plump figure, that I knew so well. And then, she’d come back up the hill, carrying the white dishes, the dishes he’d used that day.

IT WAS, as I thought about it, absurd. How had this happened, how had we been brought into this situation?

Howard never saw Joseph, he’d just ask me, in the evenings, if everything was alright with him. Yes, yes, fine, I said. Emily takes him food, that’s all. I don’t see him.

I didn’t see him, it’s true.

There’s nothing to worry about, Howard said. It’s got nothing to do with us. Howard had said that many times. It was only partly true, of course. I said nothing.

I FORCED MYSELF to put Joseph and the garden room out of mind, and to continue with my own work. My painting, above all. I had progressed, I felt I was making headway.

It began, the process of my painting, in my bedroom. After lunch I’d go to lie down. My room had a particular light, it faced south, it had the most light in the house. It faced the garden (but you know that, I’ve told you how I’d watch things in the garden from my window). It was a white room, no colour, apart from a cover on our bed, which was blue. My mother had made the cover, it had many shades of blue. Starting with indigo, a royal blue, it became more pale, in gradations: a dusky navy, then a robin’s-egg blue, and finally, a baby blue, very pale. It was made of many patches, it was a patchwork of knitted squares. My mother spent many hours making that cover, she’d made one for each of the children, too. I’m not sure what happened to mine, I don’t have it any more. It lay on the end of our bed.