Almost tropical, using the colour sense she carried over to her dress. But sometimes the drawing was poor and she needed help with perspective. Would they understand what it was she wanted? They must. Hardly able to contain herself she skipped downstairs and went to fetch the girls.

Emma had fallen over in the playground and skinned her knee. ‘It hurted and I cried,’ she said gloomily. ‘And Miss Mills couldn’t find a plaster.’

We’ll put some cream on it at bedtime,’ assured her mother, negotiating a tentative path through the afternoon traffic jam.

‘Alexander bit me,’ confided Joanne, revealing a plump arm with the occasional toothmark.

‘Don’t tell Daddy,’ warned Sarah, well aware that disclosures of that type caused Douglas to come out in a rash of fee-paying prospectuses. He agreed with Sarah that it was better for their children to spend at least part of their childhood somewhere other than a middle-class ghetto, but evidence of assault on his lovely, chubby baby would have her in the convent nursery class before you could turn round. And they were far too keen on discipline for Sarah’s liking, who could see no reason why three-year-olds should spend half an hour a day reciting numbers which they would learn in an instant when they were five. She preferred them to count snails in the sandpit. Douglas would certainly not agree, so she avoided the argument, and fortunately the girls were receptive to embargoes on tales to Daddy. Sometimes it worried Sarah that she was educating them in deceit, but since it was either make them promise not to tell or never let them eat lollies in the car, paddle in the park, do somersaults on the climbing frame or go to the hamburger place on the nights when Daddy was away, there really seemed to be no choice. And she was sure that they realised Daddy only wanted the very best for them all.

Her thoughts turned back to her painting weekend.

‘Mummy will be going away for two nights soon,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Grandma will look after you, and Daddy. You won’t mind, will you?’

‘But you can’t,’ said Emma in shocked tones. ‘We need you.’

‘Not all the time you don’t, darling. Sometimes it’s nice for mummies to get away. And Grandma will give you lots of lovely food and I’ll bring you both a present.’

‘I want a tractor,’ said Joanne happily, secure in the knowledge that someone, somewhere, always looked after her.

‘Of course you can have a tractor, darling,’ promised Sarah easily, although Douglas hated the girls to have toys meant for boys.

‘Daddy won’t let you,’ said Emma, and turned to gaze out of the window. ‘You won’t bring anything ’cos Daddy won’t let you go.’

‘Don’t be silly, love. It’s not a question of Daddy letting me go—I’ve arranged it. And anyway, I’m Mummy, I don’t have to ask.’ That was right, she was Mummy, she didn’t need people’s permission to do things. Anyway, Douglas couldn’t object, she was organising everything beautifully.

He won’t let you,’ said Emma again and Sarah could have slapped her. Honestly, anyone would think she was five years old too.

When the children had changed and were playing outside Sarah went again to the phone.

‘Hello, Mother? It’s me.’

Darling! I’m so glad you rang, I was beginning to think you'd forgotten me.’

‘I rang yesterday.’

‘Yes, dear, but you were in such a hurry. Still, I know how it is when you’re young, never any time for anyone . When you get to my age of course it’s different, no-one needs you any more and when you’re on your own—’

‘I do need you actually,’ broke in Sarah, refusing to be drawn into the long and familiar routine of pacification. Her mother was annoyed because she hadn’t been invited to Sunday lunch for a fortnight, but it was entirely her own fault. A widow, she had taken to town life with more enthusiasm than Sarah could ever muster. Mrs Melling shopped and played bridge, took senior citizen tickets to the theatre, gave sherry parties for her more elegant friends. It all cost a great deal more than she could afford, and when the bank began to grumble she appealed, as always, to Douglas. He paid up like a Trojan for Douglas was never mean, he had no need to be. But it infuriated Sarah, who loathed the way her mother treated Douglas, like some sort of bran tub, a prize every time.