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couple of hours, Saturday mornings.’
    ‘Gary?’ There were several Paget offspring. Gary must be the adolescent, from marriage number one.
    ‘He’s a big lad now. Fourteen. Muscles on him like nobody’s business. You can put him on to the rough work — dig over the vegetable garden, that sort of thing. Give him one fifty an hour, that’ll be quite enough. Maybe two quid by Christmas, if you think he’s worth it.’
    ‘But we don’t grow vegetables,’ said Edward.
    ‘I’m surprised, Mr Glover.’ Ron sounded quite censorious. ‘I thought everyone was doing their own veg these days. Nouvelle cuisine and all that. Mangetouts and yellow zucchini — that’s what I’m into this year. Fantastic. I’ll tell you the varieties to go for.’
    The Glovers, intrigued by this unsuspected bent, gazed at him. Helen suddenly thought — well why not? It’s absurd the way we waste the garden. Never mind yellow whatsits but new potatoes would be nice. And he could clean up that old mower and do something about the grass. ‘All right. Maybe it’s not a bad idea.’
    ‘Oh,’ Edward began. ‘We’d never. .
    ‘Tell him to come on Saturday,’ said Helen.
    Ron grinned. ‘Spot on, Miss Glover. You won’t regret it. And I’ll drop by myself and have a think about your damp. Cheerio for now.’
    ‘What was all that about?’ said Edward, when he had gone.
    ‘Falling over himself to be so helpful.’
    The Britches, of course.’
    ‘He never gives up, does he? But do we really want this boy messing about?’
    ‘Might as well.’
    Edward shrugged. ‘If you say so.’
    Life was reasserting itself. Days had trundled by and it was now two weeks since the funeral. Helen, going into Dorothy’s room, saw that it had become dusty. Her presence was still loud and strong, but patchily so; there were occasional moments when she was not there at all, when it was possible to walk up the stairs or into the kitchen without expecting to see her. The black holes were becoming grey; Helen could see the substance of the house behind them, as though brick, stone and wood were extinguishing her mother.
    She began to manifest herself in other ways.
    ‘At least get new curtains,’ said Louise. She had come down for the night, for purposes as yet unclear. ‘These are all of thirty years old. They’ve got moth and mildew. I’ve always hated them.
    They’re the precise colour of pee.’
    ‘Mother made them.’
    ‘I know mother made them. That’s why the hems are uneven.
    That’s why they’re such a nasty colour.’
    Remnants, thought Helen, from a sale at Elliston & Cavell’s in Oxford, which is no more, subsumed into Debenham’s. I helped, if that is the right word, mother to buy the material. Stood about, in actual fact, while she yanked bales of stuff around and hectored shop assistants. I murmured things about the colour at the time. She pointed out that the fabric was cheap and serviceable.
    And indeed here it is, still serving.
    ‘And another thing,’ said Louise. ‘The downstairs loo. Cloakroom, as mother called it. Something must be done about it — there are strata, quite literally strata, of defunct raincoats in there. There’s stuff of father’s. Do me a favour and clear it out.’
    ‘It’s part of the ambience,’ said Helen.
    ‘The what?’
    ‘This house feels so established.’
    ‘What’s all this about? Who’s been giving you that sort of crap?
    Here …’ Louise rummaged in a carrier bag. ‘I brought a bottle of plonk. What are we eating? And where’s Edward? Don’t tell me he’s sloped off somewhere — I want to talk to both of you.
    Tim’s at a weekend conference, so I damn well didn’t see why I shouldn’t have a break myself. God knows what I’ll find when I get back, but still.’
    ‘Edward’s in the Britches putting up some nest-boxes that came this morning, and we’re eating a sort of stew.’
    ‘Mail order nest-boxes!’ said Louise. ‘I don’t believe it!’ She wandered around