Feather Boy. Nicky Singer

says Mavis. “Is that a poultice?”

      “Could be,” says Niker.

      “Sit down, sit down,” calls Catherine gaily. “Sit down by your Elder please, everyone.”

      But I have no Elder. Edith Sorrel is not in the room. I remain standing.

      “Sit down, Robert. It is Robert isn’t it?”

      I sit.

      Behind me Niker sets up a soft hum. Do, do der doo, do der do der do der doo. It’s a funeral march. “Never mind, Norbie,” he whispers. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.” Do, do der doo…

      “Quiet now, please. Well, today I hope we’re going to move on to actually making some work,” says Catherine. “Some little illustrations of the wisdoms that we were talking about last week. I was speaking to Albert before you all arrived and he mentioned paths to me…”

      “Primrose path to hell,” squawks Mavis.

      “Right on,” says Niker.

      “Well,” says Catherine, “I think Albert was thinking more of paths of wisdom. And path as visual image. Which I thought was a very good idea. Because paths are things that lead us on, take us from one place to another. So perhaps that could be our starting point for today. We might think of an individual paving stone, perhaps with a wisdom inscribed on it, or something growing round it, or something or someone treading on the stone… You can use any of the materials here and…”

      People begin to drift towards the tables. In the noise and movement I slip away into the corridor. I remember exacdy where Edith Sorrel’s room is. Third on the right. I knock softly, in case she’s asleep. There is no answer. Quietly, I ease open the door. The room is small and institutional. There is a bed, a chair, a wardrobe, a basin and a bedside cabinet. Except for a toothbrush, flannel and soap, there are no personal items at all: no photos, no china, no knick-knacks, not even a book.

      Miss Sorrel is asleep, breathing quietly and evenly. Sitting in the chair at the bottom of her bed is a man.

      He rises, as if startled by me. He’s tall, white-haired and, despite the heat of the room, he’s wearing a full-length black overcoat. There’s something hunched about him, something glittering, that makes me think crow, hooded crow. He stares like I owe him an explanation, so I say:

      “Hello, I’m Robert. I’m on the project.”

      “Ernest,” he replies edgily. “Ernest Sorrel.”

      “Oh,” I say. “You must be her brother then.”

      “No. Not exactly.” His eyes bore into me. “I’m her husband.”

      I try to keep my face neutral but, as Edith Sorrel told me quite emphatically that she didn’t have a husband, it isn’t easy.