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was that Gemma had left a message with the duty nurse to say she’d gone to Elizabeth’s house. Esme took that to mean their arrangement still stood.
    The doorknocker sounded. She wiped her face with the back of her wrists and went to answer the door.
    ‘Onions,’ she said to Gemma’s alarmed face. She stepped back to allow Gemma in.
    Gemma took off her coat and dropped it over the arm of the sofa. ‘Brenda’s going to send on the post,’ she said. ‘Saves me going over.’
    ‘That makes sense. Come on through.’ Esme headed for the kitchen, relieved to see that Gemma had decided that their earlier disagreement was a thing of the past. Unless this was her way of avoiding the difficult issues, by pretending they hadn’t happened. Time would tell.
    Esme grabbed a couple of wineglasses and a bottle of Merlot from the dresser.
    ‘Fancy a glass?’
    ‘Yes please.’ Gemma plonked herself down at the kitchen table and dropped the heap of envelopes next to her. Esme handed her a glass of wine.
    ‘Cheers. Here’s to Mum’s recovery,’ toasted Gemma.
    ‘Ditto to that.’ Esme sipped her wine and then turned back to the onions. ‘I usually chop these things outside, but it’s a bit wet for that.’
    Gemma glanced out of the window. It had been a day of heavy showers and another was rattling against the window panel of the stable door.
    ‘Outside?’
    ‘Yes. You don’t suffer the effects.’
    ‘I suppose not. I’ve never thought about it. You’re a mine of information, Esme, d’you know that?’
    Esme gave a weak smile and slid the onions into the pan. They hissed as they hit the hot oil. Whatever mine of information she usually enjoyed seemed to have deserted her for the moment. If there was a mine analogy, it was that she was fumbling around in a dark place like a nineteenth-century collier with only a single candle to light the way.
    Esme added the remaining ingredients, turned down the heat and left the pan to simmer. She turned to Gemma who was idly sifting through the post she had collected from Elizabeth’s house. Esme picked up her wine and went to join her at the table. She took a sip and studied Gemma over the top of her glass. She had stopped flicking through the pile and was frowning at one letter.
    ‘What have you got?’ asked Esme.
    ‘I don’t know. It’s the way this is addressed.’
    ‘How d’you mean?’
    ‘Well, you know what a stickler Mum is for convention and her obsession with being Mrs P Holland? I could never see what the problem was.’
    ‘It probably goes back to when we were kids. With both our names beginning with “E” if a letter was addressed Miss E Meredith, we didn’t know if it was for me or her. We’d squabble until your gran intervened.’ Esme laughed. ‘We’d stand there holding our breath while she opened the letter to establish whose it was. We had to ask people to address letters by our full name so there was no confusion. Your mum preferred the formality of Miss E Meredith so she made a right fuss about it. She complained that Gran should have thought about it when she chose our names.’
    Gemma shook her head. ‘She’s never told me that, even though I used to ask her why it mattered so much.’
    There was a moment’s pause while Esme guessed they were both reflecting on the things that Elizabeth never told people.
    ‘So what’s odd about this letter, then?’
    ‘It’s addressed to her full name. No “Mrs”.’
    Esme shrugged. ‘The writer obviously didn’t know her like you and I do.’
    ‘But if she only ever gives her name in the way she prefers, why would it be altered?’
    Esme was encouraged that Gemma was raising the question. Was this an indication that she might change her mind about learning more about Elizabeth’s attack?
    ‘What about official forms?’ said Esme. ‘You have to give your full name then.’
    Gemma scoffed. ‘You haven’t heard Mum on the phone, giving them an earful because they haven’t addressed her