Truth so evanescent, like the light after sunset, the glaucous sky and gelid wind or jellied eels on the quayside fading into night, the lighthouse fingers sweeping round… truth… Perhaps I’ll write poems like I did then when everything was new and forced itself upon me… Bill did once, too… Nothing lyrical about that… or songs! Imagine writing songs and people going round singing them!

*

John’s here, alone. He isn’t happy about the way I spoke to the children last time. He lost control of the conversation. I hijacked it, he says. It turned out all right, of course. Still, they’re his children. He should be the one to decide what they hear, and when, he says. I say nothing. Good luck, I think, controlling what they see and hear and read, now they’ve all got the internet on all day.

Of course he’s pleased with my new-found health and vitality. He’d given me up for dead, I think. And here I am, back in the land of the living, in the sort of form he hasn’t seen since he himself was a child.

One he’s finished telling me off about how I told his children the truth about Winifred, he calms down.

‘My dear, I’m pleased to see you again, and so soon,’ I say. ‘All alone though. That’s a shame – oh – not that I’m disappointed.’

‘It’s OK, Mum. I know you like to see the children.’

‘And – erm—’

‘Charlotte. Of course. But I wanted to see you alone.’

‘That sounds ominous.’

‘What? Don’t be silly. I want to talk about one or two things.’

‘Of course, dear. Shall we have tea in the garden again? Look at it out there.’

John peers out of the window as if he’s only now noticing the blue sky, the breeze, the small clouds drifting over, the leaves bright green and restless, or any of the many beauties of the day. His mind must have been elsewhere. In a fog of anxiety, from the look of him.

‘Yes, fine, let’s do that.’

I press a button, and in a moment a Helper appears. Not Winifred. Ruby, who looks similar.

‘My son and I would like tea in the garden. Please get a human being to make it though. Not one of the Helpers.’

Ruby is, of course, not offended at this, and is happy to sort it out.

We go outside, and take a seat looking out over the lawn. A cat is lying in the flowerbed nearby, sunning itself and pretending not to notice the birds pecking about on the grass.

‘What is it you want to talk to me about?’ I ask.

‘You’re looking great. I mean, unbelievably good, considering.’