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hated comics; she said they should be reading books, even though she spent the whole time reading big shiny magazines with more pictures than words. He shouldn’t have said anything; maybe she would look round and ask Andrew what he was reading. He sat very still and tried to think of something harmless to say. But it was no good.
    ‘And so . . .’ she said in a bright voice. Daniel looked out of the window; perhaps she wasn’t talking to him. ‘Daniel?’
    ‘Yes?’ he said discouragingly.
    ‘Did you have Mr Williams today?’ Perhaps he should lie. But that never worked. He went bright red and his voice shook and she always found out.
    ‘Yes,’ he said reluctantly.
    ‘Oh good!’ She turned round briefly to flash him a bright smile, and he felt the glow begin to fade. The whole point was that it was a secret glow. He stared at the passing houses and furiously remembered the exact smile Mr Williams had given him; the exact thrill of hearing his name out loud like that; the way Xander, his best friend, had looked at him—kind of casually impressed . . . But her voice cut through his thoughts inexorably, breaking them up and spoiling them. ‘And did he say,’ she paused to negotiate a roundabout, ‘. . . did he say anything to you about the scholarship class?’
     
    By eight o’clock, Marcus was sick of the subject of scholarships. He had arrived home from work to find Anthea in triumphant mood, even though, as far as he could make out, nothing had actually happened beyond some teacher at Daniel’s school saying he could try for a scholarship. Well, big deal. It was hardly surprising, given the number of times Anthea had mentioned scholarships to Daniel’s teachers. They must have realized their lives wouldn’t be worth living unless they recommended Daniel for the scholarship class. She was completely obsessed by the idea. Marcus, meanwhile, was ambivalent, and resolved, almost unwillingly, to say something to her about it.
    After supper, he made a jugful of strong, dark coffee—decaffeinated, at Anthea’s insistence—and took it into the drawing-room. The boys had volunteered to help Hannah stack the dishwasher, which meant they could hang around the kitchen, breathing in illicit cigarette smoke and Radio One, Marcus shrewdly realized. He had to return to the kitchen for a jug of milk, and as he went in, he saw them both sitting on the kitchen floor reading comics—strictly forbidden by Anthea. Daniel jumped, with a startled, deer-like movement inherited from his mother. Andrew, meanwhile, looked up calmly from his copy of the Beano , ignoring his older brother’s frantic signs, and said, ‘Don’t tell Mummy about the comics.’
    ‘That’s no way to talk!’ chided Hannah, drying her hands on a cloth decorated with green apples. She draped it on the heated towel rail by the sink, pulled an elastic band from out of her hair, and let the furious, aubergine-coloured tangle descend slowly from its pony-tail, around her shoulders. A few plaited strands fell heavily around her face, weighted down by coloured beads. These had appeared after last year’s Glastonbury Festival and had stayed put ever since.
    ‘You know you’re not supposed to read comics,’ she continued. ‘If your mum finds out, that’s your own fault.’
    ‘I told you,’ whispered Daniel to Andrew, turning agonized eyes on his father. Marcus felt it was his turn to speak.
    ‘Now, really, boys,’ he said, trying to inject a tone of disapproval into his voice. ‘What did Mummy say about comics?’ Daniel hung his head, and half closed his comic, as if trying to hide the evidence.
    ‘Well, can we just read them tonight?’ Andrew looked engagingly at Marcus. ‘I’ve nearly finished, but Daniel wants to read this one next.’
    Marcus watched, half amused, half pained, as Daniel blushed pink at Andrew’s words and looked down, fronds of dark hair falling over his forehead. He felt at a bit of a loss. As far as he was concerned,