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We’re not impoverished upper class, he thinks, we’re not shabby genteel. We’re like any other Warboys family.
    They stand in front of the unnamed portrait, looking up.
    Robert speaks first. ‘I should think the only reason Daddy didn’t sell that painting is because it’s worthless.’
    Agnes is silent, gazing at the picture with an intensity that Robert still finds disconcerting.
    ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘come and let’s meet them.’
    Without knowing why, or what for, they have gathered in the kitchen. Graeme is standing in front of the open fridge drinking orange juice out of the carton. His wife Karen is at the sink, washing dishes. She is a small dark-haired woman wearing a wellironed cotton shirt tucked into belted jeans. Trim. Their two children, Andrew and Francis, are playing with toy trucks by the back door. They are scrub-faced and clean like their mother and they wear their dark hair slightly long for little boys; Karen won’t let Graeme take them to have their hair cut short. Jenny, the family blonde – where did she get that hair? Robert sometimes thinks, as if it’s something she picked up in Peterborough – is standing beside the telephone as if she hopes it might ring, twisting her hair with her fingers. Martin, their father, is in his wheelchair in the corner, a baseball cap on his head, a blanket over his knees. The sun, making a brief appearance, is shining through the back window that overlooks the garden. They are waiting.
    ‘This is Agnes. Agnes Samuel.’ Robert makes a flourishy gesture and steps back, leaving Agnes on her own in the middle of the room.
    No one speaks for what feels to Robert an age. The collective gaze rests on Agnes and Robert has to stop himself from rushing over to share the burden. This is Agnes’s moment: she can make it work, he knows she can.
    Everything happens at once. Graeme turns back to the fridge and says loudly, ‘Karen, where did you put that bacon?’ Karen turns away from the sink, points at Robert’s shoes and says, ‘You’re tracking in mud.’ Andrew and Francis knock their heads together as they go back to their play, and both begin to cry. Jenny lowers her hand to the telephone, picks up the handset and puts it down again. She extends the same hand toward Agnes and says, ‘It’s so nice to meet you.’ Agnes is too far away to reciprocate and Jenny lets her hand drop to her side. Martin remains silent, as always, and as Karen glances at him en route to the babies she thinks, with a shock, that his eyes are clear and he is looking straight at Agnes. Karen scoops up Francis the two-year-old and Jenny takes Andrew by the hand. They are standing by the open fridge now, regrouped; they can feel the cool air on their skin.
    Robert speaks again. ‘We are going to be married. On Saturday. This Saturday. You’re all invited. Everyone’s invited. I want a big party. I thought we could have it here.’
    No one says a word. Their silence is punctuated by little sobs from Francis who can’t seem to get his breathing under control. They make a strange family portrait, frozen by the refrigerated air. In the corner, on his own in his wheelchair, Martin wheezes loudly. It is usual for him to gasp occasionally as though he is drawing his last breath. No one, except Agnes, turns to look at him.
    Agnes keeps her eyes on Martin’s face. She smiles brilliantly and then looks directly into the eyes of each of the Throckmortons, one at a time. Her voice is low and mesmerizing as she speaks.
    ‘I am so pleased to meet you. I’ve so looked forward to meeting you all.’
    She steps toward them, her hands outstretched. She goes from Martin to Karen to the babies (who slip behind Karen’s legs) to Jenny and, lastly, takes Graeme’s hands into her own. ‘I’m hoping we will be happy.’ She is speaking to everyone, slowly, deliberately, she has their complete attention. ‘Thank you for making me welcome. It means so much to me.’
    And with that it is as