A glove-maker hit hard by her little brother's death takes refuge in an elegant world of numbers.

My mother used to call him her darling little brother.

Mum and Dad in the front, me and my sister on the back seat, and my little brother on the parcel shelf.

In the hotel we can take as much as we like and my little brother put forty pickled onions on his plate with his bacon and egg.

Then his little brother sickened, and died too.