Mrs Shield was feeling left out. Grace, looking through some old correspondence of Arthur’s passed on to her by Noah, could tell from the way she circled the table humming a little ditty. She craned her neck and peered over Grace’s shoulder, giving a groan of pain. She made several comments about Grace always being busy. ‘You’re like your father. He was always busy with something or another, even when there seemed to be nothing to be that busy with. Not that I’m complaining, I never did. I’m a busy person myself. And I know I’m very fortunate to have you here for your holidays.’

‘Not all my holidays, Evie. I’ll stay until you manage on your own but then I’ve got things to do, lots of things.’ But she remembered that moon-face peering round the door of her father’s study, hoping for an invitation to enter. She remembered sitting in her room with a group of friends and Mrs Shield bustling in with a tray of cocoa that no one wanted, lingering just in case she was needed, before disappearing back to that chill corner of the house where the leftover people go. It was Mrs Shield’s peculiar tragedy, wanting so much to be needed that in the end she became the needy one.

‘But I’m really enjoying us spending some time together,’ Grace said, feeling guilty. ‘It’s been ages. And it’s a help to me too, you know, being able to bunker down for a while.’

‘That’s the point of family,’ Mrs Shield said, cheeks pink with pleasure, ‘providing refuge. So have you found out anything more about your picture?’

Grace shook her head. ‘I thought of driving up to London just for the day to fetch it so I can show it to Louisa; see if that jogs her memory.’

‘Tomorrow is my little party. You haven’t forgotten, have you? You did say you’d cook. I don’t think I could manage on my own yet … although I would have to try and do my best.’

‘Of course I’ll do it,’ Grace said. ‘Although I can’t see why you thought it was a good idea to arrange a dinner party just when you’ve broken your ribs.’

‘I thought it would be nice for everyone to meet up. I’ve got Percy coming, and Elsa, and poor Marjory of course, and Noah. I did ask if he thought Louisa might like to come but he said she never goes out. I was quite relieved, I have to admit; old people can be very hard work.’

Grace had decided on the menu for Mrs Shield’s party: scallops, followed by duck in morello-cherry sauce, then cheese. Mrs Shield would protest that men need something sweet to finish off their meal, but Grace, a reluctant cook at the best of times, decided the best she could do was a box of mint chocolates. The small market town was full of women just like her, walking back to their cars, squinting against the rain, no hand to hold the umbrella, gorilla arms trailing heavy carrier bags. Oh, Nell Gordon, she thought, if you could see me now I would be obligingly as you described: a love lost, a promise unfulfilled, a talent squandered … What else can I add to that impressive CV? Oh yes, dottily seeking Forbes. Her face contorted, her eyes shut tight squeezing out tears that mingled with the drops of rain running down her cheeks. ‘It isn’t fair, you know, Jefferson,’ she mumbled. ‘You make me love you and then you leave me, twice, and you’re still not content but you send me a picture to fall in love with too, by another man I cannot find. So what hope have I of ever getting free of you?’ She opened her eyes and realised that she was providing entertainment – sad old woman talking to herself – for a group of giggling teenage girls all topknots and dangly earrings and jackets like puffed-up frogs. She was right outside the Lion and Lamb Antique and Tea Shop and she escaped inside. Putting her bags of groceries down on the floor, she stopped to admire a white enamel bucket with Soiled Dressings painted in large black letters. It would look good in her kitchen, she thought. And she could not resist leafing through some old magazines from the 1940s, full of brave good cheer, recipes and handy tips for making the rations go further. She was tempted to buy a tin box containing a primus camping stove but rightly decided she would never use it and passed on by. There was a glass-topped display table with silver and enamel boxes and some cigarette cases. One she especially liked: a plain silver case that looked long enough to take filter tips. She asked if she could take a closer look and was told to go ahead, the glass top lifted right up. She picked out the case, thinking it probably dated from the late 1920s, early 1930s. She would have to check the hallmark with a magnifying glass to be sure. There was quite a dent in the side, she noticed. That should bring the price down to affordable. She opened the case and saw that there was an inscription. It read Forbes Forever.

‘I stood there, mouth open, heart beating,’ Grace told Noah at the dinner table. ‘I know Forbes is not that uncommon a name, but still …’

Percy said that unfortunately scallops didn’t really agree with him. Used to, but not any more.

‘I’m not usually given to flights of fancy but I can’t help feeling that this was some kind of sign.’

Noah finished his scallops and leant back in his chair. ‘A sign?’

‘You know, as in find me.’

Noah was quiet for a moment and then he said, in a voice so low that only Grace, sitting next to him, could hear. ‘The most preposterous idea’s just occurred to me. Think if my upright old granny and your Forbes were lovers? I know there was some kind of major drama back before the war. That could be it and it would explain your feeling that she knows more than she’s letting on.’

Grace nodded slowly, taking it in. ‘You could be right.’

‘And how is our young celebrity?’ Percy said in the loud voice of the slightly deaf. ‘I hear they want you on television next?’

‘I think you’ve got that wrong,’ Grace said. It had been too much to hope that the subject of those wretched articles would not be brought up. But at least he did not sound as if he was feeling sorry for her. She smiled as she said, ‘There’s no television.’ Just then she caught sight of Mrs Shield. Her moon-face was blushing red as Mars and she refused to look at Grace as she busied herself with clearing the plates, grimacing from the discomfort of her damaged ribs.

‘Evie,’ Grace used her mildest voice, ‘do you know anything about a television programme?’

The pile of plates had to be rescued by Percy. Mrs Shield sat down again. ‘Oh dear, I quite forgot in all the excitement of our little party, but there was a call for you, when you were out, from a very charming young man putting together something for The West Bank Show...’

‘South Bank,’ Grace corrected automatically.

Mrs Shield perked up. ‘There, you know it. They would be so pleased if you could come on the programme and speak about … well, I don’t exactly remember what, but it’s to do with your award. A new shortlist, I think they said. Anyway,’ she paused and, not quite looking at Grace, added quickly, ‘I said I was sure you’d be only too happy. He was so grateful, Grace. You should be pleased to be so highly thought of.’

Noah was covering his mouth with his napkin but it was obvious he was laughing. Grace shot him a mean look before getting to her feet, saying to the table in general, ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to go and slice the duck with a very sharp knife. Care to come with me, Evangeline?’ Mrs Shield got up from the table clumsily, supporting herself on the back of her chair. Grace felt instantly ashamed; in the topsy-turvy world of ageing, she had the power to turn her stepmother into a chastised child. It was not a power she wished to have.

In the kitchen, as she deposited a stack of plates in the sink, Mrs Shield tried to make things better by saying how everyone seemed to think Grace appearing on television very exciting. ‘And I sort of led that sweet young man to believe that you would do it. He’ll be terribly disappointed.’

‘Evie.’ Grace took her stepmother’s hands in hers. ‘Look, I hate to be awkward.’ Mrs Shield’s sandy eyebrows rose in a question. ‘All right, so that’s not strictly true, but this time it’s for a good reason. I know there seems to be a feeling that being on television is one step from entering the gates of heaven, and had I been working still and been asked to talk about my work then I might have leapt at the chance. But it’s not my world any more, and to the programme makers I’m just a warmed-up old scandal they think might add spice to their recipe. It’s the difference between appearing at the fair as the juggler or the bearded lady. You do understand?’

Mrs Shield gave Grace’s hand a little pat and made an effort to smile. ‘Yes. Yes, of course I do. I just think you’re a little particular. But that’s probably to your credit.’ And she added, so quietly Grace could hardly hear, ‘Some of us would be glad to be asked to appear at the fair in the first place.’

After dinner the talk turned to Noah’s book. ‘It’s about time someone did your grandfather that honour,’ Percy said. ‘This part of the world has an unfair reputation for being stuffy. My own boys keep going on about it. “It’s so dull, Dad. So middle class and boring.” Middle class, perhaps, but boring? People need to be reminded that it was these pleasant lands that produced a great artist like Arthur Blackstaff. They don’t make them like that any more, no they don’t. I credit him with firing in me my lifelong interest in the fine arts. Without him as an example I don’t believe I would ever have even thought of picking up my brushes.’

‘I didn’t know you painted, Percy,’ Noah said.

‘I’m strictly amateur, dear boy, just an amateur, but it’s given me great pleasure over the years. I know there is a view that would say why bother when your work is never going to amount to anything. But I believe there’s something to be said for endeavour. I don’t wish to be pompous, but I think I’m a better person because of my little hobby. Art ennobles the soul, even when the art in question is far from perfect, I truly believe that. And, as I see it, art should be uplifting, beautiful, and that’s what Arthur Blackstaff believed. I heard him speak once. I was a young man but I never forgot. “I deplore isms,” he said. “Cubism, Expressionism, Surrealism… there is no ism in beauty.”’

‘Hear hear,’ poor Marjory said. ‘Some of the things they call art these days …’

Grace, fearing a conversation about unmade beds and piles of bricks, pretended not to hear. Instead she asked Percy, ‘But beauty in whose eyes? I admit it; I have problems with Arthur Blackstaff’s work. Oh it’s all there, every detail correct and present, every colour true. Everything is spelt out and speaks to me not one word.’ She turned to Noah. ‘I hope you don’t mind me being so blunt.’

‘Isn’t it a bit late asking that now?’ Elsa interjected mildly. Grace grinned at her.

‘Are you sure you are the best judge, dear?’ Poor Marjory’s voice came clipped from smiling lips. ‘Arthur was one of our greats.’

‘You can think what you like, Grace,’ Noah said, ‘but I don’t agree with you. How much of his work are you actually familiar with? Have you seen the Island canvas, for example?’

‘No.’

‘Well, you should.’

Marjory’s face, pink-powdered and rouged, took on the alert look that Grace knew meant she was about to say something unpleasant. ‘Wasn’t there some drama at the time of its unveiling?’ she asked, proving Grace right. ‘One of the old people told me. You know how the villagers like to gossip.’ Seemingly oblivious to the embarrassed hush around the table and the clenched set to Noah’s jaw, she went on, ‘I know he was no angel, there was the matter of his young women … but I don’t really see that as an excuse. I know my children are always saying that I was a saint to put up with Malcolm the way I did, but I never saw it that way. No, he had his little ways, but I knew my duty.’

‘Poor Marjory.’ Mrs Shield shook her head. ‘You are the bravest woman I know.’

Marjory murmured a protest that sounded just like agreement. ‘No, no, well there have been times …’ She straightened her back and patted the side of her candy-floss hair. ‘Of course adultery is a mortal sin whatever the reason for it.’ She paused and glanced sideways at Grace. ‘But best not to go into that.’

‘Oh please don’t worry on my behalf,’ Grace said. ‘I have no shame.’

‘Why do you say things like that, Grace,’ Mrs Shield fussed, ‘when we all know it isn’t true?’

That’s when Percy stood up and said that he did not know about anyone else but he was ready for his beauty sleep.

Mrs Shield declared the party a success. ‘Although I wish you wouldn’t make those little jokes of yours. People who don’t know you as well as I do take you seriously. And Noah, what a delightful young man he’s turned into. Those wonderful eyes. I never knew his poor father but they say he’s the spitting image. It’s all very sad. Everybody dying.’

Grace put her arm round Mrs Shield and gave her a little hug, careful not to hurt her ribs. ‘Oh Evie, you haven’t been going around thinking we weren’t; dying, I mean?

Mrs Shield looked puzzled for a moment then her brow cleared. ‘You know what I mean, Grace. And dear Marjory; I noticed you two having a little chat by the door and I thought I’d leave you to it.’

Poor Marjory had lingered after the others had gone. ‘Now, I can’t deny that I was more than a little shocked to read about your … well … Evie never said a word. And him married all those years and three little girls too. But I want you to know that I believe you’ve suffered enough.’ It was all in her gentlest voice and as she finished speaking she placed her bird-like hand on Grace’s arm. ‘And don’t thank me. I care about you, my dear. As I always say, there’s no changing the past however much one might wish to. There can only be a determination to do better next time. Not of course that there would be a next time. I know you have learnt your lesson. You’re in my prayers, dear, every night. As the good Lord says, repent and you shall be forgiven.’

Grace looked at her, at the small triangular face and the clever close-set eyes. ‘You’re right, Marjory, you can’t change the past. Which is fine by me because the particular part of my life to which you are so delicately referring is the one I’d never change, not for anything.’

Marjory had fled into the night cloaked in indignation.

Grace lay in her narrow bed trying to get to sleep counting the ways by which she could murder poor Marjory: tripwire, fire, axe, poison, trap, hole, water, knife, push, stairs, crash, toadstool.

And you, Nell bloody Gordon, don’t think I’ve forgotten you. You’re like a great big bluebottle, buzz buzz buzz. Each time I think I’m shot of you, I find a little more dirt has spread. And I bet you’re not having problems sleeping. Why should you? After all, journalism is next to godliness.