Lamb’s Lettuce
His mother tried again after breakfast, waiting until Rosemary had heaved herself around the table to clear away. He watched Rosemary, saddened again at the difference four years had made; how the maid’s hands were now patterned with liver spots and her back, once strong – strong enough to carry him under one arm as a defiant child – had bent and curved. He wanted to help her, but he did not. Instead he listened to his father, already out in the grounds, butterfly net in hand. From the open window they heard a whoosh and snap, and he wondered what the old man was trying to catch today. A Speckled Wood or Purple Hairstreak? The names of species lay elephant-like on his tongue; he had said them to himself, night after night, for four years.
Rosemary left and his mother reach
