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thcratch,’ Imogen said, leaning forward. She twisted round and pushed his unshaven face away. He caught her fingers in his mouth.
    â€˜Doing lunch,’ Mikey said. He offered Archie a photograph of an immense black American boxer. ‘Would he beat you up?’
    â€˜Only if you were very annoying.’
    â€˜Now,’ said Imogen, ‘my finger’th wet.’
    â€˜Lick mine then,’ Mikey said kindly.
    â€˜Bite,’ Archie said, snapping his teeth. ‘Bite, bite, bite . What have you been doing to those fingers?’
    Mikey held up a hand piebald with purple stains.
    â€˜The felt-tip leaked. I was doing a picture for Grandpa.’
    â€˜What of?’
    â€˜A kestrel. With a mouse.’
    â€˜The mouse hath blood,’ Imogen said with satisfaction.
    â€˜Grandpa is bringing a friend, you know.’
    â€˜Mummy thaid—’
    â€˜It’s a lady,’ Mikey said, running his purple finger round Mike Tyson’s great gloved fist. ‘She’s called Mrs de Breton. Imogen drew her some flowers.’
    â€˜Did you, darling? What sort of flowers?’
    â€˜Black,’ said Imogen.
    Archie drank his tea.
    â€˜What is Mummy making for lunch?’
    â€˜She cut the bone out of the meat,’ Mikey said. ‘With a big knife. And then she put a whole lot of junk in.’
    â€˜What sort of junk?’
    â€˜Apricots and those little yellow nut things—’
    â€˜And rithe,’ said Imogen. ‘Black rithe.’
    â€˜Black rice?’
    â€˜She said it was wild,’ Mikey said, lying back on the pillows. ‘Looked pretty tame to me.’
    Archie lay back beside him.
    â€˜Michael Logan, you have filthy ears.’
    Mikey wriggled sideways so that his face was almost touching his father’s.
    â€˜Clare’s coming to lunch, too. She rang up and said she’d got the bad blues so Mummy said come to lunch.’
    Imogen stood up unsteadily in bed, releasing a rush of cold air across Archie, and began to jump.
    â€˜Don’t,’ said Archie.
    Imogen fell over.
    â€˜Just one’th—’
    â€˜No.’
    He caught her and held her against his chest.
    â€˜No,’ she said, her voice rising in protest. ‘No, no, no—’
    The door opened and Liza came in wearing a plastic apron which said across the front ‘A Good Mother Makes a Happy Home’. She held out a jar of honey.
    â€˜I can’t get the top off.’
    Mikey seized the jar.
    â€˜Why d’you want honey?’
    â€˜To smear on the lamb.’
    Imogen began to scramble out of bed.
    â€˜I do it—’
    Archie took the jar away from Mikey and unscrewed the top.
    â€˜I gather Clare’s coming.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Liza said, stopping herself just before she said sorry. ‘She sounded miserable.’
    Archie swung his legs out of bed and stood up.
    â€˜Sometimes I think I’m getting compassion fatigue over Clare.’
    â€˜She is unhappy—’
    â€˜She loves being unhappy.’
    â€˜Archie,’ Liza said. ‘If, as we are, you are lucky enough to be happy, it really is the least you can do to include people in your life who are unhappy.’
    Archie bent and kissed her.
    â€˜What a priggish little popsicle you are.’
    â€˜You only say that because you know I’m right.’
    â€˜Now then,’ Mikey said, rolling himself up in the duvet, ‘no argy-bargy.’
    Liza put her hand on the door.
    â€˜It’s a quarter to eleven. Your father is coming at twelve and the fire isn’t lit and I don’t know which wine.’
    â€˜Why are you cross?’
    â€˜I’m not cross. I’m just cooking Sunday lunch for seven and a rice pudding for Granny Mossop, having been up since a quarter to eight and done the children and the dog.’
    Archie pulled on a blue towelling robe.
    â€˜Well, I’m cross.’
    Mikey, encased in wadding like a human Swiss roll, sat