Two of them, small and quite separate, they moved of their own accord. She was my father's mother, but not Kate's grandmother. I'd queried that once. You are an Ansty. Kate is not an Ansty.
Children are very quick to recognise an adult's embarrassment.
She answered the way she had done, long before, when I asked her why her pug, Buller, was trying to cuddle the leg of the table. Tom is her father and your mother's second husband. She turned her back on me to fiddle with a flower arrangement, so I couldn't see her snapping, bright eyes, only her tiny, trim figure in its fashionable short frock and the corrugated waves of marcelled grey hair. Your father was a hero and died for his country. Never forget that.