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hug people enough.”
    â€œDon’t you believe it. Huen I huas much smaller than you are now some of those terrible old German cousins came to stay. Huenever they saw me they huould pick me up and hug me and insist on a kiss. They huere huomen, but they had moustaches, and even in Madrid they huore huool next to the skin, huich made them smell like dirty old sheep, except that their breaths smelt of aniseed.”
    â€œOh, both sides have got to want to. It’s got to mean something. Do you want to?”
    â€œJust now, yes, in spite of your filthy hands. Huat on earth have you been doing, Lulu?”
    â€œOh, I finished my homework early and started looking for something in the old press cuttings.”
    â€œWhich year?”
    It didn’t need the perfectly pronounced W to tell Louise that she’d trodden on a mine, hidden in the grass of the soft meadow through which she’d just been strolling. Deliberately she pulled herself closer into Mother’s stiffened embrace.
    â€œBefore you were married,” she said. “That’s why I’m a bit sloppy this evening. I was thinking how marvellous you are, and how foul people can be, and what a lot you’ve given up. And I do love you—it’s just that I don’t get many chances to show it.”
    It wasn’t any good. She’d made it worse.
    â€œWell, I love you, Lulu,” said Mother, “and I know I am not very good at showing it. I’m sorry. You’d better go and wash, darling, because I don’t want to have to change this dress before dinner.”
    There was no shake in her voice, no glimmer of wetness in her eye. Her kiss was as precise as the full stop at the end of a sentence.
    â€œSorry,” said Louise as she disentangled herself. “Don’t move. I’ll tell you if I’ve left any marks … I think your dress is OK but there’s a little blotch on your neck. Do you mind lick? Oh, Mother, don’t be silly. Sit still. There. I’m glad you haven’t got a moustache and you don’t smell of aniseed and old sheep, but I’d love you even if you did. I think that’s all right now. Bye.”
    Only when she was out of the room did she realise that she’d left her essay on the desk, and that it wouldn’t be fair to go back and collect it now. Mother would bring it along to supper. Somehow her face managed to smile at Annette when she met her bustling along the corridor, but really she felt as upset as Mother had been. The only thing she could think of was that Mother hadn’t really accepted Nonny as easily as she’d pretended to, and that there was something about it in the cutting-books which still hurt. And yet Durdy had said it was all right.
    â€¢ • •
    Mother did bring the essay to supper. All the Family were at home, for once, and Father insisted on charades afterwards. They had a laughing evening, and Louise managed to push her sense of danger and hurt deep down and close the lid on it. But next afternoon when she went to the Library to start her homework she had to wait in the doorway to let out a couple of the Palace porters who were pushing a rubber-wheeled trolley piled with slabby green volumes. Inside she found Mrs Suttery looking harassed.
    â€œHello, Mrs Suttery, have you had the removals men in?”
    â€œYes, thank heavens. I’ve got rid of all the press-cuttings before 1960, except the wedding volume. Lovely empty shelves—just what a librarian dreams about.”
    â€œWhere’ve they gone? Are you going to burn them?”
    â€œGood heavens, no! They’ve just gone into store. I’ve been wanting to move them out for simply ages.”
    Louise smiled. One of the likeable things about Mrs Suttery was that she was a less practised liar than most of the Palace staff.

Chapter 5
    â€œB lighter had a go at me last night,” said Sir Sam.
    â€œBut you foiled him,” drawled