My mother, too, is up. I say:

'I have to get back today.'

A small, complete figure in a quilted dressing-gown of pink, she is making tea and toast for my father.

'Never mind,' she says, perhaps to herself. 'But won't you have trouble going today?' I will and have thought about it.

'There must be something doing. I'll ring around. I'll hitch-hike if I have to.'

She looks at me squarely now (a girl with how many brothers?), her hands on her hips. There is much that is tender in her stance. Yet she wants a little more.

'There's a dog now,' I lie. 'I've got a dog now at home.'