October 1974

Do you remember him, lambsie? I was always glad for him that he knew his beautiful daughter at least for a time, and for you that you might have some memory of your father. But now I wonder—was he taken too soon for that? Can you remember back that far, really? I would like to believe it’s so, that there is some part of you that knows the touch of Magnus Tulloch’s hands, knows that you once crawled onto his chest like a kitten in front of the Metters stove and pushed his mouth around with your fingers, telling him to smile, Dada, smile, and giggled when he frowned all the more …

No.

That’s not right, is it. Of course not, lambsie, my Laura-lamb. It’s your mother I mean. Kathryn.

And she doesn’t remember any of it, no. She told me that.