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as murderous. I have never forgotten the controlled, deadly edge in her voice as she practically accused Beatrix (this was what I was told afterwards) of trying to kill the adored poodle – who lay, needless to say, stretched out across her feet at the bottom of the bed all this time, panting and hot with devotion. At the end of Ivy’s monologue there was a curious noise. Not so much a slap, exactly, as a sudden whooshing sound, followed by a kind of snap, as if a bone had been wrenched out of shape, and then a scream of distress from Beatrix. After that there was a long period of intense silence. When Beatrix finally emerged, she was nursing her wrist, and her eyes were red and her cheeks grimy with tears. We went up to the playroom together, and after a while I asked her what had happened, but she never told me. She just sat there in silence, rubbing her wrist, but to me what has always been horrible about this episode is not the thought of what Ivy might have done to her, but the way that she spoke. It was the first time I had ever heard a mother speaking to her child in a voice so icy with hate. Sadly, it was not to be the last.
    The story of Bonaparte did not have a happy conclusion. In fact it had a rather odd, not to say baffling conclusion. I shall explain what I mean by that shortly. In the meantime, I realize that I have digressed from my task of describing this photograph. Let me return to it.
    The little brick wall which ran the length of the lawn, at a height of about eighteen inches, dividing it into two different levels, is what is known as a ha-ha. Whoever took this photograph was standing on the lower level, adopting a deferential position towards the house, which therefore looms over the viewer, commanding respect. But because of the angle at which the picture was taken, the house’s gaze is directed obliquely, away from the camera and into the distance. The viewer remains insignificant, beneath notice, and Warden Farm instead directs its attention proudly, unruffled, over the lawns and pastures which lie obediently at its feet. Although I do not remember the house being quite as unfriendly as it appears here, I suppose that this chimes, figuratively speaking, with what I have been telling you about Aunt Ivy and Uncle Owen and their attitude towards Beatrix and myself. Beneath the cold glaze of their indifference Beatrix and I became allies, sisters, and the bond between us was not to be severed for a long, long time. Oh, there were to be many interruptions, many periods of separation, but they made no material difference. I always knew that would be the case. For this reason, there was sadness, but no sense of finality, when the time came to say goodbye to her, on the day the telephone rang in the stone-flagged hallway, and minutes later I found myself recalled to my parents’ house – as abruptly and as arbitrarily, it seemed to me, as I had first been sent away from it all those months before.
    The fifth picture for you now, Imogen. A winter scene. The recreation ground at Row Heath, in Bournville, some time in the bitterly cold early months of 1945.
    I find this a hard photograph to look at. It was taken by my father, with his box camera, one Sunday afternoon. The pool which stands at the centre of the park has frozen over, and dozens of people are skating on it. In the foreground, sporting thick coats and woollen hats, looking straight into the camera, stand two figures: myself, aged eleven, and Beatrix, aged fourteen. Beatrix is holding a dog lead in her left hand, and at the end of it, sitting impatiently at her feet, is Bonaparte. Both girls are smiling, broadly and happily, with no intimation of the disaster that is about to befall them.
    My father could take a good photograph: this one has been composed quite carefully. There are four distinct ‘layers’ to the picture, if that is the correct term, and I shall try to describe them to you one by one. First of all, in the far background,