I received a card from my mother as well as a shirt with a tab collar that she had bought at some boutique in Liverpool — Lord John or King Cool or something. There were some records and a few other cards, from grandparents, from an aunt and uncle, from godparents. And a postcard, days late. Dearest Robert, I know it’s your birthday because you made a point of telling me the exact date, and even so I’m late! So, happy late birthday. I have also bought you a present. If you would like to take up my invitation to come up to town, I’ll give it to you. Next weekend? Let me know. Jamie will be here. Love, Caroline From the other side of the card a woman’s face looked up at me: a woman in tears, her face broken up into jagged planes like shards of broken glass. She held a tattered handkerchief to her cheeks. The printed rubric said “Woman Weeping, portrait of Dora Maar: Pablo Picasso.” It was, I guessed, her idea of a joke.
