Yes, Dorothy was rather thin, even gaunt. Yes, Harriet thought, full of guilt as usual, she should have noticed.

"And you have a husband, too," said Dorothy, apparently not knowing how she was turning the knife in her daughter's heart. "He's very good, you know, Harriet. I don't know how he puts up with it."

The Christmas after Ben became three only partly filled the house. A cousin of David's had said, "I've been inspired by you, Harriet! After all, I've got a home, too. It's not as big as yours, but it's a nice little house." Several of the family went there. But others said they were coming: made a point of coming, Harriet realised. These were the near relations.

Again a pet was brought. This time it was a big dog, a cheerful boisterous mongrel, Sarah's children's friend, but most particularly Amy's. Of course all the children loved him, but Paul most of all, and this made Harriet's heart ache, for they could have no dog or cat in their home. She even thought: Well, now Ben is more sensible, perhaps ... But she knew it was impossible. She watched how the big dog seemed to know that Amy, the loving little child in the big ugly body, needed gentleness: he moderated his exuberance for her. Amy would sit by the dog with her arm around his neck, and if she was clumsy with him, he lifted his muzzle and gently pushed her away a little, or gave a small warning sound that said, "Be careful." Sarah said this dog was like a nursemaid to Amy. "Just like Nana in Peter Pan," the children said. But if Ben was in the room, the dog watched him carefully and went to lie in a corner, his head on his paws, stiff with attention. One morning when people were sitting around having breakfast, Harriet for some reason turned her head and saw the dog, asleep, and Ben going silently up to him in a low crouch, hands held out in front of him....

"Ben!" said Harriet sharply. She saw those cold eyes turn towards her, caught a gleam of pure malice.

The dog, alerted, scrambled up, and his hair stood on end. He whined anxiously, and came into the part of the room where they all were, and lay down under the table.

Everyone had seen this, and sat silent, while Ben came to Dorothy and said, "I want milk." She poured him some, and he drank it down. Then he looked at them all staring at him. Again he seemed to be trying to understand them. He went into the garden, where they could see him, a squat little gnome, poking with a stick at the earth. The other children were upstairs somewhere.

Around the table sat Dorothy, with Amy on her lap, Sarah, Molly, Frederick, James, and David. Also Angela, the successful sister, "the coper," whose children were all normal.

The atmosphere made Harriet say defiantly, "All right, then, let's have it."

She thought it not without significance, as they say, that it was Frederick who said, "Now look here, Harriet, you've got to face it, he's got to go into an inst.i.tution."

"Then we have to find a doctor who says he's abnormal," said Harriet. "Dr. Brett certainly won't."

"Get another doctor," said Molly. "These things can be arranged." The two large haystacky people, with their red well fed faces, were united in determination, nothing vague about them now they had decided there was a crisis, and one that-even indirectly-threatened them. They looked like a pair of judges after a good lunch, Harriet thought, and glanced at David to see if she could share this criticism with him; but he was staring down at the table, mouth tight. He agreed with them.

Angela said, laughing, "Typical upper-cla.s.s ruthlessness."

No one could remember that note being struck, or at least not so sharply, at this table before. Silence, and then Angela softened it with "Not that I don't agree."

"Of course you agree," said Molly. "Anyone sensible would have to."

"It's the way you said it," said Angela.

"What does it matter how it is said?" enquired Frederick.

"And who is going to pay for it?" asked David. "I can't. All I can do is to keep the bills paid, and that is with James's help."

"Well, James is going to have to bear the brunt of this one," said Frederick, "but we'll chip in." It was the first time this couple had offered any financial help. "Mean, like all their sort," the rest of the family had agreed; and now this judgement was being remembered. They would come for a stay of ten days and contribute a pair of pheasants, a couple of bottles of very good wine. Their "chipping in," everyone knew, wouldn't amount to much.

Full of division, the family sat silent.

Then James said, "I'll do what I can. But things are not as good as they were. Yachts are not everyone's priority in hard times."

Silence again, and everyone was looking at Harriet.

"You are funny people," she said, setting herself apart from them. "You've been here so often and you know-I mean, you really know what the problem is. What are we going to say to the people who run this inst.i.tution?"

"It depends on the inst.i.tution," said Molly, and her large person seemed full of energy, conviction: as if she had swallowed Ben whole and was digesting him, thought Harriet. She said, mildly enough, though she trembled, "You mean, we have to find one of those places that exist in order to take on children families simply want to get rid of?"

"Rich families," said Angela, with a defiant little sniff.

Molly, confronting impertinence, said firmly, "Yes. If there is no other kind of place. But one thing is obvious: if something isn't done, then it's going to be catastrophic."

"It is catastrophic," said Dorothy, firmly taking her position. "The other children ... they're suffering. You're so involved with it, girl, that you don't see it."

"Look," said David, impatient and angry because he could not stand this, fibres tangled with Harriet, with his parents, being tugged and torn. "Look, I agree. And some time Harriet is going to have to agree. And as far as I am concerned, that time is now. I don't think I can stick it any longer." And now he did look at his wife, and it was a pleading, suffering look. Please, he was saying to Harriet. Please.

"Very well," said Harriet. "If some place can be found that ..." And she began to cry.

Ben came in from the garden and stood watching them, in his usual position, which was apart from everyone else. He wore brown dungarees and a brown shirt, both in strong material. Everything he wore had to be thick, because he tore his clothes, destroyed them. With his yellowish stubbly low-growing hair, his stony unblinking eyes, his stoop, his feet planted apart and his knees bent, his clenched held-forward fists, he seemed more than ever like a gnome.

"She is crying," he remarked, of his mother. He took a piece of bread off the table and went out.

"All right," said Harriet, "what are you going to tell them?"

"Leave it to us," said Frederick.

"Yes," said Molly.

"My G.o.d!" said Angela, with a kind of bitter appreciation of them. "Sometimes when I'm with you, I understand everything about this country."

"Thank you," said Molly.

"Thank you," said Frederick.

"You aren't being fair, girl," said Dorothy.

"Fair," said Angela, and Harriet, and Sarah, her daughters, almost all at once.

And then everyone but Harriet laughed. In this way was Ben's fate decided.

A few days later, Frederick rang to say that a place had been found and a car was coming for Ben. At once. Tomorrow.

Harriet was frantic: the haste of it, the-yes, ruthlessness! And the doctor who had authorised this? Or would? A doctor who had not even seen Ben? She said all this to David, and knew from his manner that a good deal had gone on behind her back. His parents had talked to him at his office. David had said something like "Yes, I'll see to it" when Molly, whom suddenly Harriet hated, had said, "You'll have to be firm with Harriet."

"It's either him or us," said David to Harriet. He added, his voice full of cold dislike for Ben, "He's probably just dropped in from Mars. He's going back to report on what he's found down here." He laughed-cruelly, it seemed to Harriet, who was silently taking in the fact-which of course she had half known already-that Ben was not expected to live long in this inst.i.tution, whatever it was.

"He's a little child," she said. "He's our child."

"No, he's not," said David, finally. "Well, he certainly isn't mine."

They were in the living-room. Children's voices rose sharp and distant from the dark winter garden. On the same impulse, David and Harriet went to the window and pulled back the heavy curtains. The garden held dim shapes of tree and shrub, but the light from this warm room reached across the lawn to a shrub that was starkly black with winter, lit twiggy growths that showed a glitter of water, and illuminated the white trunk of a birch. Two small figures, indistinguishably unis.e.x in their many-coloured padded jackets, trousers, woollen caps, emerged from the black under a holly thicket, and came forward. They were Helen and Luke, on some adventure. Both held sticks and were prodding them here and there into last year's leaves.

"Here it is!" Helen's voice rose in triumph, and the parents saw, emerging into the light on the end of the stick, the summer's lost red-and-yellow plastic ball. It was dirtied and squashed, but whole. The two children began a fast stamping dance around and around, the rescued ball held aloft in triumph. Then, suddenly, for no obvious reason, they came racing up to the French doors. The parents sat down on a sofa, facing the doors, which burst inwards, and there they were, two slight, elegant little creatures, with flaring red, frost-burned cheeks and eyes full of the excitements of the dark wilderness they had been part of. They stood breathing heavily, their eyes slowly adjusting to reality, the warm, lit family room and their parents sitting there looking at them. For a moment it was the meeting of two alien forms of life: the children had been part of some old savagery, and their blood still pounded with it; but now they had to let their wild selves go away while they rejoined their family. Harriet and David shared this with them, were with them in imagination and in memory, from their own childhoods: they could see themselves clearly, two adults, sitting there, tame, domestic, even pitiable in their distance from wildness and freedom.

Seeing their parents there alone, no other children around, and above all, no Ben, Helen came to her father, Luke to his mother, and Harriet and David embraced their two adventurous little children, their children, holding them tight.

Next morning the car, which was a small black van, came for Ben. Harriet had known it was coming, because David had not gone to work. He had stayed so as to "handle" her! David went upstairs, and brought down suitcases and holdalls that he had packed quietly while she was giving the children breakfast.

He flung these into the van. Then, his face set hard, so that Harriet hardly knew him, he picked Ben up from where he sat on the floor in the living-room, carried him to the van, and put him in. Then he came fast to Harriet, with the same hard set face, and put his arm around her, turned her away from the sight of the van, which was already on its way (she could hear yells and shouts coming from inside it), and took her to the sofa, where-still holding her tight-he said, over and over again, "We have to do it, Harriet. We have to." She was weeping with the shock of it, and with relief, and with grat.i.tude to him, who was taking all the responsibility.

When the children came home, they were told Ben had gone to stay with someone.

"With Granny?" asked Helen, anxious.

"No."

Four pairs of suspicious, apprehensive eyes became suddenly full of relief. Hysterical relief. The children danced about, unable to help themselves, and then pretended it was a game they had thought up then and there.

At supper they were overbright, giggling, hysterical. But in a quiet moment Jane asked shrilly, "Are you going to send us away, too?" She was a stolid, quiet little girl, Dorothy in miniature, never saying anything unnecessary. But now her large blue eyes were fixed in terror on her mother's face.

"No, of course we aren't," said David, sounding curt.

Luke explained, "They are sending Ben away because he isn't really one of us."

In the days that followed, the family expanded like paper flowers in water. Harriet understood what a burden Ben had been, how he had oppressed them all, how much the children had suffered; knew that they had talked about it much more than the parents had wanted to know, had tried to come to terms with Ben. But now Ben was gone their eyes shone, they were full of high spirits, and they kept coming to Harriet with little gifts of a sweet or a toy, "This is for you, Mummy." Or they rushed up to kiss her, or stroke her face, or nuzzle to her like happy calves or foals. And David took days off from work to be with them all-to be with her. He was careful with her, tender. As if I were ill, she decided rebelliously. Of course she thought all the time of Ben, who was a prisoner somewhere. What kind of a prisoner? She pictured the little black van, remembered his cries of rage as he was taken away.

The days went by, and normality filled the house. Harriet heard the children talking about the Easter holidays. "It will be all right now that Ben isn't here," said Helen.

They had always understood so much more than she had wanted to acknowledge.

While she was part of the general relief, and could hardly believe she had been able to stand such strain, and for so long, she could not banish Ben from her mind. It was not with love, or even affection, that she thought of him, and she disliked herself for not being able to find one little spark of normal feeling: it was guilt and horror that kept her awake through the nights. David knew she was awake, though she did try to hide it.

Then one morning she started up out of sleep, out of a bad dream, though she did not know what, and she said, "I'm going to see what they are doing to Ben."

David opened his eyes, and lay silent, staring over his arm at the window. He had been dozing, not asleep. She knew he had feared this, and there was something about him then that said to her: Right, then that's it, it's enough.

"David, I've got to."

"Don't," he said.

"I simply have to."

Again she knew from the way he lay there, not looking at her, and did not say anything more than that one syllable, that it was bad for her, that he was making decisions as he lay there. He stayed where he was for a few minutes, and then got out of bed, and went out of the room and downstairs.

When she had got her clothes on, she rang Molly, who was at once coldly angry. "No, I'm not going to tell you where it is. Now you've done it, then leave it alone."

But at last she did give Harriet the address.

Again Harriet was wondering why she was always treated like a criminal. Ever since Ben was born it's been like this, she thought. Now it seemed to her the truth, that everyone had silently condemned her. I have suffered a misfortune, she told herself; I haven't committed a crime.

Ben had been taken to a place in the North of England; it would be four or five hours' drive-perhaps more, if she was unlucky with the traffic. There was bad traffic, and she drove through grey wintry rain. It was early afternoon when she approached a large solid building of dark stone, in a valley high among moors she could hardly see for grey drifting rain. The place stood square and upright among dismal dripping evergreens, and its regular windows, three rows of them, were barred.

She entered a small entrance lobby that had a handwritten card tacked on the inner door: "Ring for Attendance." She rang, and waited, and nothing happened. Her heart was beating. She still surged with the adrenaline that had given her the impetus to come, but the long drive had subdued her, and this oppressive building was telling her nerves, if not her intelligence-for, after all, she had no facts to go on-that what she had feared was true. Yet she did not know exactly what that was. She rang again. The building was silent: she could hear the shrill of a bell a long way off in its interior. Again, nothing, and she was about to go around to the back when the door abruptly opened to show a slatternly girl wearing jerseys, cardigans, and a thick scarf. She had a pale little face under a ma.s.s of curly yellow hair that had a blue ribbon holding a queue like a sheep's tail. She seemed tired.

"Yes?" she asked.

Harriet saw, understanding what this meant, that people simply did not come here.

She said, already stubborn, "I'm Mrs. Lovatt and I've come to see my son."

It was evident that these were words this inst.i.tution, whatever it was, did not expect to meet.

The girl stared, gave an involuntary little shake of the head that expressed incapacity, and then said, "Dr. MacPherson isn't here this week." She was Scottish, too, and her accent was strong.

"Someone must be deputising for him," said Harriet decisively.

The girl fell back before Harriet's manner, smiling uncertainly, and very worried. She muttered, "Wait here, then," and went inside. Harriet followed her before the big door was shut to exclude her. The girl did glance around, as if she planned to say, You must wait outside, but instead she said, "I'll fetch someone," and went on into the dark caverns of a corridor that had small ceiling lights all along it, hardly disturbing the gloom. There was a smell of disinfectant. Absolute silence. No, after a time Harriet became aware of a high thin screaming that began, and stopped, and went on again, coming from the back of the building.

Nothing happened. Harriet went out into the vestibule, which was already darkening with the approaching night. The rain was now a cold deluge, silent and regular. The moors had disappeared.

She rang again, decisively, and returned to the corridor.

Two figures appeared, a long way off under the pinpoints of the ceiling lights, and came towards her. A young man, in a white coat that was not clean, was followed by the girl, who now had a cigarette in her mouth and was s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up her eyes from the smoke. Both looked tired and uncertain.

He was an ordinary young man, though worn down in a general way; taken bit by bit, hands, face, eyes, he was unremarkable, but there was something desperate about him, as if he contained anger, or hopelessness.

"You can't be here," he said, in a flurried indecisive way. "We don't have visiting days here." His voice was South London, flat and nasal.

"But I am here," said Harriet. "I am here to see my son Ben Lovatt."

And suddenly he took in a breath, and looked at the girl, who pursed her lips together and raised her eyebrows.

"Listen," said Harriet. "I don't think you understand. I'm not just going away, you know. I've come to see my son, and that is what I am going to do."

He knew she meant it. He slowly nodded, as if saying, Yes, but that isn't the point. He was looking hard at her. She was being given a warning, and from someone who was taking the responsibility for it. He might be a rather pitiable young man, and certainly an overtired and inadequately fed one, doing this job because he could not get another, but the weight of his position-the unhappy weight of it-was speaking through him, and his expression and his reddened, smoke-tired eyes were severe, authoritative, to be taken seriously.

"When people dump their kids here, they don't come and see them after," he said.

"You see, you don't understand at all," said the girl.

Harriet heard herself explode with "I'm sick of being told I don't understand this and that. I'm the child's mother. I'm Ben Lovatt's mother. Do you understand that?"

Suddenly they were all three together in understanding, even in desperate acceptance of some kind of general fatality.

He nodded, and said, "Well, I'll go and see ..."

"And I am coming, too," she said.

This really did alert him. "Oh no," he exclaimed, "you are not!" He said something to the girl, who began running surprisingly fast down the corridor. "You stay here," he said to Harriet, and strode after the girl.

Harriet saw the girl turn right and disappear, and without thinking she opened a door at her right hand. She saw the young man's arm raised in imprecation, or warning, while what was behind that door reached her.

She was at the end of a long ward, which had any number of cots and beds along the walls. In the cots were-monsters. While she strode rapidly through the ward to the door at the other end, she was able to see that every bed or cot held an infant or small child in whom the human template had been wrenched out of pattern, sometimes horribly, sometimes slightly. A baby like a comma, great lolling head on a stalk of a body ... then something like a stick insect, enormous bulging eyes among stiff fragilities that were limbs ... a small girl all blurred, her flesh guttering and melting ... a doll with chalky swollen limbs, its eyes wide and blank, like blue ponds, and its mouth open, showing a swollen little tongue. A lanky boy was skewed, one half of his body sliding from the other. A child seemed at first glance normal, but then Harriet saw there was no back to its head; it was all face, which seemed to scream at her. Rows of freaks, nearly all asleep, and all silent. They were literally drugged out of their minds. Well, nearly silent: there was a dreary sobbing from a cot that had its sides shielded with blankets. The high intermittent screaming, nearer now, still a.s.saulted her nerves. A smell of excrement, stronger than the disinfectant. Then she was out of the nightmare ward and in another corridor, parallel to the one she had first seen, and identical. At its end she saw the girl, followed by the young man, come a little way towards her and then again turn right.... Harriet ran fast, hearing her feet thud on the boards, and turned where they did, and was in a tiny room holding trolleys of medicines and drugs. She ran through this and was now in a long cement-floored pa.s.sage that had doors with inspection grilles in them all along the wall facing her. The young man and the girl were opening one of these doors as she arrived beside them. All three were breathing heavily.

"s.h.i.t," said the young man, meaning her being there.

"Literally," said Harriet as the door opened on a square room whose walls were of white shiny plastic that was b.u.t.toned here and there and looked like fake expensive leather upholstery. On the floor, on a green foam-rubber mattress, lay Ben. He was unconscious. He was naked, inside a strait-jacket. His pale yellow tongue protruded from his mouth. His flesh was dead white, greenish. Everything-walls, the floor, and Ben-was smeared with excrement. A pool of dark yellow urine oozed from the pallet, which was soaked.

"I told you not to come!" shouted the young man. He took Ben's shoulders and the girl Ben's feet. From the way they touched the child, Harriet saw they were not brutal; that was not the point at all. They lifted Ben thus-for in this way they had to touch very little of him-out of this room, along the corridor a little way, and through another door. She followed, and stood watching. This was a room that had sinks all along one wall, an immense bath, and a sloping cement shelf with plugs all along it. They put Ben on this shelf, unwound the strait-jacket, and, having adjusted the temperature of the water, began washing him down with a hose that was attached to one of the taps. Harriet leaned against the wall, watching. She was shocked to the point where she felt nothing at all. Ben did not move. He lay like a drowned fish on the slab, was turned over several times by the girl, when the young man interrupted the hosing process for the purpose, and was finally carried by them both to another slab, where they dried him and then took a clean strait-jacket from a pile and put it on him.