They stayed for three days and two nights. I had to lie, and say we’d postponed the room painting. My mother was unconcerned. She said, again, it’s a lovely room, leave it as it is.

I remember every minute of those three days and two nights, because we were keeping a secret. I thought, with renewed clarity, of the absurdity of it: a man in our garden.

But my mother never strayed far from the house, or from the patio, where she’d sit under the shading trellis with her handwork, her knitting. From there she could watch the children swimming. They liked it, and showed off especially then: their swim strokes, their skills. There was Helena in a new green swimsuit, my mother admiring it. The children would dash up to the patio, wet and shaking water off themselves, like dogs, and they’d eat something, Emily would have made tea and a cake, a poppy seed cake, or a lemon loaf. My mother enjoyed all this, that’s why she had come, after all. I had a sense of her loneliness at home in her town, on her red-floored porch with her cacti. Maggie, her maid, in the yard.

Maggie had worked for my mother for a long time, but Maggie had a problem with drink. Perhaps having Maggie gave my mother something to do, someone to mother, I see it now, these years later. I didn’t see it then, because I remember people — my mother’s neighbour — urging my mother to get rid of Maggie, she’s lazy, why keep her on, they’d say. But my mother kept Maggie.

She drove her to the doctor once a month, where Maggie was prescribed medication, I think the medication helped the drinking, what medication exactly it was I don’t know. But it helped. Maggie would be fine for a while: she, my mother’s companion, pottering in the kitchen over the sink, the dishes, sweeping and tidying.

Then she’d start drinking again. My mother would notice small changes: a new, vague, look in Maggie’s eyes, a vase misplaced, even broken, something like that. Soon enough, Maggie would come into the kitchen an hour late, the smell of meths from her, unmistakable.

MY MOTHER had never been down to the end of the garden at our house, or seen my studio. No one had. That’s how I wanted it. It was my room, my studio: my own, sacred, space. Anyone who came to our house knew that.

My father, too, never went farther than the edge of the swimming pool, never walked down the hill to the end of the garden. It’s only once that I remember him at the pool, when Howard had showed him something with the filter, with the chlorine. My father knew nothing about that, but Howard was being a host, showing a guest his home and preoccupations, I suppose.

During my parents’ visit I myself never went into my studio, I never worked on my painting. How could I? I was busy too, being a host. Mostly I was in the kitchen, unusual for me, talking with Emily about the next meal, what should be served, checking that Emily had everything, did I need to phone an order in to the grocer for this or that? That’s how I did our food shopping, then. I’d phone our corner grocer, I’d say, it’s Mrs. Kline here. Yes ma’am, hello ma’am, she’d say. And I’d give my order: a dozen eggs, please, two loaves of bread, a pound of butter, a bag of sugar, my usual, and the other usual things, please. Then I’d do the same with the butcher. And they’d deliver it, Josias carrying in the bags, large, heavy bags, through the back gate, into the kitchen. I’ve said before: food didn’t interest me much.