But she is drawn to those sketches by hypnosis, their integrity. Something emanating beyond depiction. Two women, uncannily similar, yet different; one inscribed, Margaret, one herself. Herself in clarification, not blurred, but in focus. As she wants to be, as she is.

The two women, one invoking the memory of the other, produced in memory, through herself. The achievement sings in her brain. They are not a comparison, but an endorsement.

“C’mon Pix, snap out of it, have some water.”

Something emanating beyond depiction. Two women, uncannily similar, yet different; one inscribed, Margaret, one herself. Herself in clarification, not blurred, but in focus. As she wants to be, as she is.

Yes, the message streaming from the depictions is the same, breaking her heart. She sees two teenagers while storm clouds gather over Europe. Two youngsters pledging to each other in the chaos of war. The devastation on a departing post war ship, their foundations wrenched from beneath them, rubble. Their dubious arrival, down the gangplank, a foreign land. But they never gave up their dream; him painting, her designing. The two mates sewing together, fixing those machines, greasy as hell. The strength of the bonds in the face of all that, their lives. With all her vaunted insight and intuition, she knows the fecundity of their relationship. She knows it. Every now and then there is an exceptional match, a glove that fits.

She gains the room again. She is aware of drinking water from a paper cup administered by Manny’s shaking hand, a cool viscosity dribbling down her neck. And knowing so definitely it is not her jaw that is trembling but the hand that has been proffered. The long, caring sweep of that arm that has passed so close to her mouth, the most intimate moment she has shared with him, and while she’s about it she must send those short stories off to Richard knowing the man who belongs to that arm is a working colleague only from this moment, now and always. And somewhere behind them, David is attempting order, the session shot.

She is aware of the drawings still clenched in her hands and the fierce conviction of her shout, bringing the room to attention. She brandishes the sheafs, waves collectively, points individually realizing in her ardency that she is parodying of the crazy man they have just evicted. “Can anybody, can anybody?” She sees their puzzlement. This is tough old Pix fobbing it off, sending the whole thing up. Here comes the punch-line. Though they don’t quite get it. Or is she coming out of shock, no she’s not been in shock throughout, despite what anyone thinks. And as she slaps the drawings, the words just burst from her.

“Can anybody, can anyone give me this!”

They supply only their blank faces.