Thomas Hargrove’s first birthday was in January.
We kept it small, as we had kept Rose’s small, the estate and the family and the particular warmth of the people who had been present for the whole of the story.
Callum and Petra came with Anna, who was five months and had decided that Thomas was interesting.
Thomas had decided Anna was also interesting.
They sat on the library floor together in the way of babies who do not yet have language for what they are doing but are clearly doing something, assessing and adjusting and finding a working arrangement.
“Future trouble,” Callum said.
“Future best friends,” I said.
“Same thing,” Callum said.
Robert had come for Christmas and had stayed for Thomas’s birthday, which had not been planned but had happened because no one had asked him to
