A Question of Identity by Susan Hill Page B

had his head back, eyes closed. Simon glanced at him. His face in repose was still a child’s face just overshadowed by that of the young man to come. It was like watching a new creature emerge from a chrysalis, seeing the nephew he had known since he was ten minutes old change as he inched towards adulthood. Would he ever have his own children? He was happy to share his sister’s three, engage with them as much as he liked, while always able to leave. He could not imagine being in the thick of what he saw as the general mayhem of family life. If he and Rachel . . .
    They had never let themselves touch on the subject, becauseof her situation, because of Kenneth, because they did not dare venture into such dangerous territory.
    The traffic began to crawl again. Outside, freezing fog, darkness, snow on the fields and piled high along the verges where the ploughs had been through.
    He glanced at Sam again. His face was innocent and expressionless in sleep. He did not stir when Simon’s phone rang.
    ‘Hi. We’re jammed on the motorway. Should have been back an hour ago but the traffic’s solid.’
    ‘OK. I’m still at Imogen House, and there’s been another snowfall today. The main roads are fine but it’s bad around us. How’s Sam?’
    ‘Asleep.’
    ‘I’ve missed him. I didn’t think I’d miss him so much.’
    ‘He’s missed you but he’d die rather than say so. We’ve had a great week. Any news?’
    ‘Sort of. Hannah is in the last three for this film part . . . It’s ridiculous, I shouldn’t want something so shallow and frivolous for my twelve-year-old daughter and I want it so much I can’t focus on anything else.’
    ‘She’ll get it. And you’ll focus.’
    ‘Bit worried about Dad and Judith. Storm clouds banking up there.’
    ‘Oh God . . . he just can’t help it, can he?’
    ‘I know. I’m treading on eggshells though. Can’t say anything.’
    ‘Listen, we’re moving again.’
    ‘There’s plenty of food in. Stay the night?’
    ‘Let’s see. God, I forgot – what about Molly?’
    ‘Discharged home with her parents and recovered – physically at least.’
    ‘That says it all. We’re moving properly now. See you in a bit.’
    Cat put the phone down and finished her tea. The staff-room was empty and she was glad of it, as they all sometimes were when a break was badly needed. She had done some slow breathing, looking out at the darkening sky and the snow. Now that her son and brother were on their way home and Mollywas safely off with her family, she could relax at least one part of herself, the part that was always tense when this or that person was away or travelling. There remained the semi-anxiety, semi-excitement about Hannah – but Cat had a feeling that she would get the film part, even though she tried to keep it out of her mind. When it came to Richard and Judith she veered between hope and despair and that was harder to forget, it flowed deep down and even through her dreams, like underground water, it clouded her waking and troubled her at random moments.
    ‘Cat . . .?’
    She got up, knowing at once where she was needed.
    ‘I think you should try her daughter again.’
    ‘Would you mind doing it? Not sure I’ve the patience.’
    ‘Not sure I have,’ Cathy said. ‘But let me practise.’
    Whatever response Cathy got from Penny, Cat saw as she went into Jocelyn Forbes’s room, was now irrelevant. Jocelyn lay, her right hand on the cover, palm upwards, as if waiting for someone to put theirs into it, eyes closed, face already changing as death took over. Cat took hold of the hand, utterly unresponsive as it was, and pressed it.
    The silence in the room was absolute and like a balm, a healing silence. She had known it so often, this strange sense of being ‘at the still point of the turning world’, and never ceased to be overcome by it. Death, she thought. Death, how little we know. How often and how surely you come at the perfect moment and make things right and