“The mother hated that romantic streak in us. One night, Sixteen, when she was thirteen—Does that confuse you, Stanley?—leaned out the bedroom window. The moon was full, so pale a blue, a colour no one can mix, no matter how hard we try. It washed over the countryside that night; quiet, no movement anywhere. We smiled to ourselves. And the next morning the mother hissed: ‘Did you sleep without your nightgown on last night? You know that’s not nice, the rule is you sleep in your nightgown, you keep your clothes on at all times.’
