‘Nice boy,’ Chrissie said absently. ‘And Craig. Craig’s a nice boy.’

‘Dad liked Craig,’ Dil y said.

Tamsin waited a second, and then she said, with precision, ‘Dad liked Robbie.’

‘He liked everyone,’ Chrissie said. Tears began to leak down her face again. ‘He liked everyone. And they loved him back.’

There was a pause, another exhausted, wound-up pause.

And then Amy said, ‘Did you see him?’

‘Who?’

‘You know,’ Amy said. ‘Him. Scott.’

Chrissie turned her face towards the back of the sofa.

‘Hardly. I was trying not to look.’

‘He looked just like Dad,’ Amy said.

‘Amy!’ Tamsin said reprovingly.

‘Wel , he did,’ Amy said. ‘You saw.’

Dil y said, with some venom, ‘I saw her.’

‘Shush,’ Chrissie said.

Amy leaned out of her armchair to inspect something on one bare foot.

‘She’s old,’ she said.

Tamsin said, ‘Wel , she must be Dad’s age—’

‘She looks it—’

‘She was staring at us—’

‘So was he—’

‘They shouldn’t have come —’

‘She had this gross coat on—’

‘What was she trying to prove?’

‘Dad wouldn’t have wanted her there—’

‘He looked real y awkward—’

‘Dad never talked about her—’

‘Or him—’

‘Jesus,’ Amy said suddenly.

‘What?’

Amy sat up straight. She said, ‘He’s Dad’s kid. How would we feel if Dad never talked about us?’

‘Whose side are you on?’ Dil y demanded.

‘I just thought,’ Amy said, ‘I just suddenly thought—’

Tamsin got out of her chair and picked up the champagne bottle.

‘He’s got his mother,’ Tamsin said.

She went round the circle, fil ing glasses.

‘He’s got his mother,’ she said again firmly. ‘And we’ve got ours.’

Chrissie smiled at her weakly.

‘And now,’ Tamsin said, ‘I’m just going to cal Robbie.’

Alone in her bedroom in Tynemouth, Margaret had the sensation of being so tired that she wondered if she was il . It had, of course, been a long, long day, ful of physical and emotional exertions of peculiarly demanding kinds, and she had had two double gins and two glasses of red wine in the course of the late afternoon and evening, but the thing that was exacerbating the fatigue, and making it agitating rather than obliterating, was trying to digest everything she had seen and done, to fit into her mind al those powerful jumbled images and impressions and believe, at the end, that she was back in the security of the familiar.

Dawson had been familiar, at least. He was not natural y affectionate or empathetic, but some instinct had urged him to sit in the hal and wait for her, and, when he heard her key in the lock past midnight, to pad down to the front door to welcome her and press himself inconveniently against her legs while she took off her coat. She had bent down, and heaved him up into her arms, and put her face into his rumbling, purring side for a few moments, and then she had put him down on the floor again, and he had gone to position himself, meaningful y, next to his empty dish.

‘You’l have to wait for another day to dawn,’ Margaret said to him. ‘Just as I wil .’

Her bedroom felt chil y and uninviting. She went through her rituals of closing and switching and turning down, and ran a bath with some of the rose oil – too sweet, if the truth be told – that Glenda had given her last Christmas. There was nothing much she could do about the kaleidoscope inside her head, except wait for it to stop swirling about in chaos and resolve itself into some kind of manageable order, but that was no reason to abandon the habits that had grown up round her, not because of lack of energy or enterprise, but because they suited her, and she functioned best within them.

A bath, an application of this and that to her face, a prolonged session with the immense variety of toothbrushes the fierce young hygienist at her dentist now insisted on, a vigorous hairbrush, a wel -laundered white cotton nightdress with picot edging – they al added up to something that, some days, Margaret looked forward to almost from the moment she woke in the morning. Tonight, they al seemed completely pointless, but they must be done. At the very least, they represented life when it was normal, the life that she had worked out, and worked on, to deliver her some value out of what was left on offer.

She sat down in her petticoat in front of her dressing-table mirror. She took out Scott’s pearl earrings and unfastened Richie’s pearl necklace, and laid them both in the Minton dish, where they had spent most of their nights for as long as she could remember. Then she took off the smal garnet ring from her right hand – it had belonged to Richie’s mother, a gentle and affectionate woman who had been a great relief to Margaret after the abrasiveness of her childhood – and put it in the dish beside the pearls.

She looked at her left hand. She stil wore her wedding ring. When she and Richie were married, the fashion had been for wide, flat wedding rings, as if cut from a length of metal tubing, but neither of them had liked that. Instead, they’d gone into Newcastle and found a smal , old-fashioned jewel er and bought a thin, gold, D-shaped band, which had been on Margaret’s wedding finger for forty-five years.

Perhaps she should, now, take it off. Whatever her quick denial, Scott had been painful y accurate in supposing that a tiny hope of Richie’s return had gone on glowing in her, a night light in a coal mine. She’d never had the smal est reason, the smal est sign, that a corresponding intention lingered in Richie – except that he had never divorced her. He had talked about it, to start with, and there’d been lawyers’ letters, and assessments of assets, but she, while never being uncooperative, had also never gone out of her way to move things along. And gradual y, they had stopped moving. Richie acquired one new baby, then two, and she waited for what seemed to her the inevitable consequent request for a divorce so that he could marry these babies’ mother. But it never came. A third baby arrived, and stil it never came. Margaret realized, gradual y and with little gleams of hope that she told herself were ridiculous but simultaneously had no wish to quel , that it probably never would.

But now was different. Today, with al its demands and complexities, had drawn a thick black line under twenty-three years of wondering and dreaming and hoping. Those three good-looking girls, that pretty, grieving, angry woman – the sight of them had brought Margaret to her senses. It might have been a consolation to go on wearing her wedding ring. She might have persuaded herself that she was legal y entitled stil to wear her wedding ring. But the Richie she had seen go off in his coffin today had transferred himself from belonging to her to belonging to that family in London, and that had to be recognized. In Margaret’s view, once something was acknowledged, it should be accepted, right away. It was over. She took hold of her wedding ring with her right hand, eased it with difficulty over the joints of her wedding finger, and dropped it, with finality, into the Minton dish.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mark Leverton had folowed his father into the family practice almost without thinking. His grandfather, Manny Leverton, had started his smal solicitor’s practice – ‘Wil s and probate a speciality’ – in modest offices at the eastern end of West End Lane soon after the Second World War. In due course, a brother had joined him, and a nephew, and then his own son Francis, and the modest offices had spread down West End Lane to engulf a corner site on the Finchley Road, red brick with a handsome but sober white portal, and a business which now encompassed advice on civil partnership and inheritance-tax planning. Manny’s photograph – black-and-white, the subject dressed in a three-piece suit with a watch chain –

hung above the reception desk. There were twelve partners in the offices above, nine of them Levertons. Mark, who had idly, as a teenager, thought that he might do something creative in the media, found himself going from school to law col ege in a single seamless movement, propel ed by his purposeful family, and was now in possession of an office of his own, sandwiched between two cousins, with a large modern desk adorned, among other things, with a photograph of a wife and two little sons, whom he was delighted to have but could not quite – again – recal having stirred himself much to acquire.

His father, Francis, had decided early on that Mark should specialize in that area of the law on which the firm had first concentrated: wil s and probate. The boy might not be blazingly ambitious, but he was clever enough, and thorough, and his amiable manner would be invaluable in an area prone to intense disputatiousness among the clients. Mark would not mind detail, or shouting, or repetition. Mark would be good at reasoning and smoothing without identifying too much with any particular cause or person. Mark was the man, Francis considered, best able to deal with warring and divided families.

‘Tel them,’ Francis said to Mark when Mark joined Leverton’s, ‘tel them to assume nothing. That’s the golden rule for inheritance, especial y.

Assume nothing.’

He gave Mark a quotation from Andrew Carnegie, careful y written out in copperplate, which Mark had framed and hung on his office wal . It was headed ‘The Carnegie Conjecture’: ‘The parent who leaves his son enormous wealth general y deadens the talents and energies of the son, and tempts him to lead a less useful and less worthy life than he otherwise would.’

Mark’s father Francis believed in Andrew Carnegie.

‘Establishing yourself is difficult,’ he told Mark. ‘It ought to be difficult. It won’t satisfy you if it isn’t difficult. You’ve got to cal people who don’t want to talk to you. You’ve got to get on with it when you’ve got a hangover and you’re bored stiff. Work delivers more than money ever wil – you remember that when you’re talking to people scrapping over a few thousand quid.’