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think more about Mother.
    (“Durdy, who’s your top Queen? Mine’s Elizabeth, and the rest nowhere.”
    â€œAh, I’ve no book-learning, darling. It never did anyone much good, I always say.”
    â€œOh, come on, Durdy—you’ve known a lot of Queens. You met Queen Victoria, didn’t you?”
    â€œOnly just the once, darling. She was a real Queen. Queen Mary was a real Queen. Some of those continental Royals were a mousy lot, of course. But Her present Majesty—she’s a real Queen too, and don’t you forget it.”)
    Mother had given up so much to marry Father. She had changed her religion at the risk (she still seriously believed) of eternal damnation. She had come to live in a damp climate among a people who hadn’t any of her own feelings about the meaning of monarchy but treated it half the time as a glorious peep-show and half as an expensive way of causing traffic jams. And now it turned out that she had done this knowing that Father really loved somebody else. And still she had made it work.
    With its chuckling whirr the Library clock chimed seven. Louise heaved the cutting-book home, scrabbled her homework together and left. Half way along the corridor she remembered that they were saving money now, so she scampered back to turn off the Library lights.
    Mother was at her little gilt writing-desk under the left-hand window of her private drawing-room. Annette evidently hadn’t yet come round to draw the curtains, but the reflection from the desk-lamp made the space beyond the glass look as black as deep night. Mother managed to lean over her work without in any way bending her spine; this, and her shiny dark hair pulled tight back to her nape, and the even pallor of her arms and face, made her look like a doll from Queen Mary’s collection, one of the expensive Parisian family whose flesh was the finest wax. Louise paused in the doorway, still tinged through all her consciousness by her thoughts in the Library. I’ll always see her like that, she thought. She walked quietly forward and slipped her essay on to the desk.
    Mother finished her sentence and picked it up without a word. That was OK, Louise thought—just another part of Mother’s endless duties. She was perfectly fair. If something was “over the line” so that the whole thing had to be done again, she’d always explain why. If work was messy she’d say so but never permit any changes because that was teacher’s business. Her spelling, luckily, was worse than Louise’s. This evening as she turned the first page she began to smile, which was strange enough to be worrying, and when she’d finished she put the paper down and sat there tapping the arrogant signature with a long fingernail.
    â€œI couldn’t help it,” said Louise. “I got carried away. I don’t think they’ll mind.”
    â€œOf course not, darling. It is very amusing, and strong. And of course Elizabeth huas right, though in my own history books I huas taught that she huas a great devil. But have you ever huondered how she felt? Huat huas it like to huait so long, and then to let herself pretend to be tricked into signing the order? Nobody could love her, you know—not the huay they all loved silly Mary. Is it enough to be right?”
    Mother had turned to Louise as she spoke and now she let her long pale arms fall in a gesture of appeal. Automatically, like a bird obeying its innate response to stimulus, Louise slid on to her lap, though there wasn’t really room because of the desk and the hard gilt chair creaked with the extra weight.
    â€œI love you anyway,” she said as the cool arms closed round her.
    â€œI huas not aware that hue huere talking of personal matters,” said Mother. “Last time you sat on my lap I could kiss the top of your head. Soon I shall only be able to kiss your chin.”
    â€œAm I too heavy for you? People don’t