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vicinity would really appreciate.”

Terence had looked at her dubiously but said nothing and they completed the walk in silence. Once at the house, Berthea took a long bath; Terence’s bathroom was well stocked with bath crystals of various types, and she luxuriated for almost half an hour in a deep tub of lavender-scented water. After that she felt in a better humour, and joined her brother in the kitchen, where he was preparing a plate of snacks to precede the leek pie.

It was then that Berthea chose to reveal her project.

“I’m writing a book,” she said with a flourish. “I feel you should know.”

“What a good idea,” said Terence. “Writing a book is a very good way of getting to know oneself.”

“That is not the reason why I’m doing it,” said Berthea. “This book is not being written as some sort of self-analysis. This book is being written as a form of public service.”

Terence snipped at a bunch of chives. “Do tell,” he said. “Terence is very interested.”

He had an occasional habit of referring to himself in the third person—a habit which Berthea disliked intensely, but she said nothing about it now. Terence had to know about her book because he could be called upon to help.

“I’m glad to hear that Terence takes that view,” she said. “Yes. I have decided to write a biography of my son, and indeed I have already embarked on the task.”

Terence put down the chives and turned to his sister. “Oedipus?”

“He is, I believe, the only son I have,” said Berthea drily. “Yes. The biography of Oedipus Snark, MP.”

Terence exhaled, a long drawn-out sound that was halfway between a whistle and a sigh. “By his mother,” he said. And then added, “Sensational!”

Berthea raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t overstate its impact,” she said. “I might not call it sensational myself, but I expect there will be a certain level of interest in it. After all, Oedipus is reasonably well known these days.”

“I read about him in the paper recently,” said Terence. “He had been somewhere and made some speech or other. About something.”

Berthea smiled. “That’s the sort of detail that I need,” she said.

Terence showed no sign of having understood the barb. “I’m sure that you’ll do him justice,” he said.

Berthea nodded. “It would be useful to have your perspective,” she said. “After all, you are his uncle, and he did spend a lot of time with you as a schoolboy when he was on his summer holidays. Remember? You were very good to him.”

Terence sighed. “Berthea, dear, we’re both adults, aren’t we? Which means that I really should be able to speak to you frankly.”

“I would expect nothing less,” said Berthea.

“In that case, dear sister, I really must confess to you that I’ve always had problems with Oedipus. I’ve tried to like him, I really have—he has an immortal soul like the rest of us. But, I don’t know, my dear. The truth of the matter is … Well, to put it bluntly, I really can’t stand him.”

“But, my dear,” whispered Berthea, “neither can I. And that’s why I’m writing his biography. I want the world to know what my son is like. This is an act of expiation on my part. In writing this book, I am atoning for Oedipus. Do you understand that?”

“Perfectly,” said Terence. “And now let’s have some of this lovely leek pie. Smell it. Beautiful. Pure.”

Berthea sat down at the kitchen table. “Fit for the Beings of Light themselves?”

“They love it!” said Terence.

30. Rye

BERTHEA SNARK was not the only person to head out of London that weekend in search of the peace that the English countryside, and at least some of the towns that nestle in its folding hills, can bring. Oedipus Snark, MP, the son whose distinctly non-hagiographical biography Berthea had begun to pen, was also in the country, although at a different end of it—in his case, in Rye.

The idea of going to Rye for the weekend had not been his, but had been suggested by his lover, Barbara Ragg, the literary agent and author of the moderately successful Ragg’s Guide to the Year’s Best Reads.

“Rye,” she had said, a few weeks earlier. “If the weather holds, it could be gorgeous.”

Oedipus Snark, who disliked being trapped with Barbara for a whole weekend, searched his mind quickly for an excuse. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got a constituency do, see? A long-term commitment, I’m afraid. You go by yourself. Send me a postcard.”

Barbara was prepared for this. “But I