This shock reached Anna’s diaphragm; she felt it tighten. She said, however: ‘No, hardly ever.’ He stared at her; and she went on: ‘You want me to say what I really feel, don’t you? You sounded just then like Mother Sugar. She would say to me things like: He’s the father of your child. Or: He was your husband. But it didn’t mean anything to me. What’s troubling you — that your mother didn’t really care for Richard? Well she was much more involved with Richard than I ever was with Max Wulf.’ He was standing, straight, very pale, and his stare was all inwards; Anna doubted whether he saw her at all. It appeared however that he was listening, so she went on: ‘I understand what it means: having a child by the man you love. But I didn’t understand it until I loved a man. I wanted to have a child by Michael. But the fact is, I had a child by a man I didn’t love …’ she tailed off, wondering if he were listening. His eyes were directed at the wall at a point some feet away. He turned his dark abstracted gaze towards her, and said in a tone of feeble sarcasm she had never heard from him: ‘Go on, Anna. It’s a great revelation to me, hearing an experienced person talk of their emotions.’ His eyes, however, were deadly serious, so she swallowed the annoyance that the sarcasm had released in her, and went on: ‘It seems to me like this. It’s not a terrible thing — I mean, it may be terrible, but it’s not damaging, it’s not poisoning, to do without something one wants. It’s not bad to say: My work is not what I really want, I’m capable of doing something bigger. Or I’m a person who needs love, and I’m doing without it. What’s terrible is to pretend that the second-rate is first-rate. To pretend that you don’t need love when you do; or you like your work when you know quite well you’re capable of better. It would be very bad if I said, out of guilt or something: I loved Janet’s father, when I know quite well I didn’t. Or for your mother to say: I loved Richard. Or I’m doing work I love …’ Anna stopped. Tommy had nodded. She could not make out whether he was pleased with what she had said; or whether it was a thought so obvious he didn’t want to hear it said. He turned back to the notebooks, and opened the blue-covered one. Anna saw his shoulders heave in sarcastic laughter, designed to provoke her.

‘Well?’

He read out: ‘March 12, 1956. Janet is suddenly aggressive and difficult. Altogether a difficult phase.’

‘Well?’

‘I remember your once saying to my mother, how’s Tommy? My mother’s voice is not exactly designed for confidences. She said in a ringing whisper: Oh, he’s in a difficult phase.’

‘Perhaps you were.’