The Missing World by Margot Livesey

admonition to take whatever time he needed. “They sent the most gorgeous bouquet. Maud said it must’ve cost a fortune.”
    “That’s great,” said Diane. “Steve and I were worrying they might be a bit sticky. I mean, the situation is irregular.”
    Jonathan glared at his glass, at the green walls, at everything in the room save Steve and Diane. He saw himself careering amongst the toys, hurling stuffed animals into the air, grinding Lego blocks underfoot. As if to reinforce his vision, from the bedroom came a cry. Steve started to rise. “Give her a minute,” Diane said.
    They both sat forward in their chairs. After a brief crescendo Katie lapsed back into silence, by which time Jonathan had decided to leave. He’d always known they were less than partisan. Diane in particular was given to infuriating remarks. You have to try and understand Hazel’s point of view, she would say. Thank goodness he had not told them about the precious moment of recognition.
    “Well,” he said, getting to his feet, “one for the road.”
    He went over to the mantelpiece, refilled and drained his glass. As he set it down, he saw Steve and Diane exchange glances. Did no one, other than Hazel, ever forget anything?
    “Why didn’t you phone?” Bernadette’s lips tightened and even her ponytail seemed to grow rigid with annoyance. Melissa and Oliver stood on either side. Together the three of them filled the doorway not, Charlotte had to confess, like a welcoming committee but more like an army protecting its flanks. That they were all in uniform—school for the children, nursing for Bernie—intensified the military effect.
    Charlotte opened her own arms wide—look, no weapons—and smiled. “I tried,” she bluffed. “It was busy. And I found these books that I thought would be perfect for Mel andOliver.” After years of Bernie’s squeamishness she knew better than to explain that she had quite literally found them in a box outside the Rumanian Relief Fund shop in Lamb’s Conduit Street.
    “They’re in the middle of their homework.”
    Bernie’s posture yielded not a centimetre, but Charlotte caught the slight shift in tone—her sister no longer sounded exactly like an answering machine—and rushed into the breach. “I won’t interrupt. I could supervise them, or maybe they need to be tested. That way you can get on with whatever you need to do.”
    “I suppose you want to stay for supper.”
    “Lovely.”
    “Oh, Mum,” Oliver exclaimed. “She always eats everything.”
    “I do not.” Charlotte glared, though it was true that on her last visit she had inadvertently taken a massive second helping of stew that precluded anyone else, including Oliver, from having more. But Bernie was already moving away, and she hurried inside to cut off further unwelcome disclosures. As she hung her coat on the rack, she noticed a row of milky splotches running down the front of her blouse. Bugger it, just the sort of thing that drove Bernie berserk. Had she any idea what a stick she looked in that nurse’s uniform? Charlotte draped her scarf across her chest and planned a visit to the bathroom at the first opportunity. Sometimes it seemed impossible that she and Bernie were related, but then one of the few things they did agree on was how ill-suited their parents were, battling through forty years of marriage as if Henry VIII had never existed.
    In the kitchen, Bernie was chopping onions to the chatter of Radio 4. “Can I help?” Charlotte said. She made a great show of rolling up her sleeves. Without even glancing up, Bernie shook her head.
    “Fine.” God, she could be a drag. “Give a shout if you change your mind.”
    Melissa and Oliver were huddled in the living-room, goading each other about homework. Bernie had some stupid rule that the television couldn’t be switched on until they both had finished. Still, it gave Charlotte an opportunity to show what an excellent addition to the household she would be. “Can I