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directly, only by omission – Lindsay asked politely, to change the subject, 'How's Jake?'
    'Busy, what else? Cooking up schemes. You know Jake.' Christine negotiated a tricky intersection where the main road crossed the country lane they were travelling along. 'He has something on his mind.'
    'What sort of thing?'
    'Wish I knew! Business, I expect, it's not doing as well as he'd like.'
    'The recession –'
    'What are we all going to blame our troubles on when the recession's over?' Christine laughed lightly, grew silent for a while, then resumed her chatter, bringing Lindsay up to date with the latest news, while the hedges rushed dizzily past in the wind generated by the car's passing.
    Lindsay, feeling washed out and colourless beside her mother, who always looked so stunning, wished she wouldn't talk so much, wouldn't drive so fast. Not that Christine took risks. It was just that she would have liked the opportunity to be able to drink in the quiet countryside, today looking amazingly green after thirsty, dusty brown London, although the hot summer had brought the first touches of autumn early here, too. More than that, she needed quiet, to be alone in her head for a while before facing them all again.
    'Are you sure you're all right, darling?' Christine asked suddenly and Lindsay, jerked out of her introspection, replied too quickly that of course she was, and there was a tight silence of the sort Christine had become only too used to before the last time Lindsay had gone away.
    She sometimes thought that having a conversation with her daughter was like unravelling an old jersey for reknitting. For row after row the stitches would streel smoothly away and then would come a snarl, the wool would break off and have to be tied together again. Christine's family had been poor and she had too many memories of having to wear reknit jerseys, the wrong side full of knots which invariably worked through to the front, to be comfortable with the analogy.
    Lindsay sat on her bed, feeling suspended, floating. Her luggage was still unpacked, dumped on the floor, reminding her of another time she'd been here, alone in her room with her suitcase packed.
    A horrible time. It had nearly been too much for her, the misery had threatened to take her over, so that she had no will of her own. She had thought, hopelessly: my life's out of control. Not to be in control of yourself and your actions was just about the worst scenario she could imagine. Perhaps she ought never to have gone away, alone. She'd always been like a chameleon, taking on the colour of her surroundings. In London, in her dreary and depressing little flat, dark and unacceptable ideas took possession of her. It was only through her music, by throwing herself into her studies, that she had kept sane, but here in this lovely, light-filled house she felt boundless peace, a renewal of energy and a possibility that the future might actually have something in store for her. Italy had helped her to get herself together again, the last dark months were over ... One hurdle was already over, the most difficult: Christine, who always seemed to see right through her, right to the bone. Now there was only Matthew, who was all right, no need to worry about him. And Jake, who was the nearest she'd yet found to a father.
    She picked up her lute and strummed a desultory chord or two, breathing deeply until she was calm enough to go downstairs.
    But still she hesitated. And presently, she found herself reluctantly reaching out for the morocco box on her dressing table where she kept her small collection of 'real' jewellery, the Victorian pieces she loved, all of them presents: the turquoise necklace from her mother, the delicate gold and seed pearl cluster ring Nigel had given her for her eighteenth birthday, the hair brooch and the pretty pair of tiny Victorian coral drop earrings from Jake. She scarcely ever had occasion to wear them, but they were there if ever she did. They were the