On the second visit, I asked her if I could sit in the back, but she said she wasn’t a taxi driver and that having someone to talk to helped her concentrate on the road. While at the hospital, Beatrice would always give me time alone with my mother before coming in herself some time later. I was pleased that my mother seemed better; a touch more talkative and less tired-looking. Within minutes of Beatrice entering the room, she was laughing and for a time, the whole ghastly episode that had befallen us receded into the background. I told my mother all about Turridge House, the beautiful artwork, the gardens, and how Clara took up trays for Mr Turridge.
‘Just like me,’ I said, and she threw her arms around me, burying her face in my hair.
She didn’t mention Walter Heather or the Shelley’s
