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telephone, and the horror of sharing with him in the mildewed Pavilion. However, if one allowed oneself to dwell on the hurdles ahead, one would never gain the strength to jump over them.
    I went to the window and leant on the sill looking down into the chicken run. Two windows along to my right Giles was leaning out of his window, apparently firing an imaginary rifle at something.
    â€˜What are you up to?’
    â€˜Shooting mammoths.’
    â€˜Really? Mammoths?’
    â€˜Something like that. Up on those cliffs. I expect there were mammoths there trillions of years ago. Don’t you?’
    â€˜I expect so. If you are as bored as you sound, come along to me. I’m going to change, then we’ll go down.’
    But he had already withdrawn his head and a couple of seconds later tapped at my door. ‘It’s a bit boring. My room. And I finished the book Arthur gave me to translate.’
    â€˜Already! What was it?’
    â€˜Babar the Elephant. Honestly!
Kids’
stuff … it was dead easy.’
    â€˜That’s encouraging. That’s what he probably expected. Tomorrow he’ll give you a chunk of Flaubert.’
    â€˜To eat?’
    â€˜No. To read, idiot.’
    â€˜I never heard of it. Did you put the call in to Mum?’
    â€˜She didn’t give me the number in Spain. Clever old her, and there’s no telephone number on the card she gave me.’
    â€˜What’ll you do, then?’
    â€˜Take a shower. Have you washed?’
    â€˜I’m not dirty. Have you got a comb?’
    The water in the shower was tepid, but cleansing both physically and mentally, except that it ran down the billowing plastic curtain and dribbled on to the tiled floor of the bedroom. Giles called out that there was a flood, and I turned off taps, grabbed the towel, and stepped out. It was hardly a relaxing event, but I felt better. Lying in a hot bath, just thinking, sorting things out, soothing the anxieties would have been a good thing. Crouched under a shower-head green with verdigris and buffeted by a sagging plastic curtain did not inspire much clarity of thought. Should I, I wondered, start the Heavy Father act and insist that the child wash? Or ignore it? I decided to make just a token gesture.
    â€˜Giles, I really think you ought to clean up a bit. You look a mess, and you’ve been banging about in the aviaries with Arthur – you’ll be covered in bird-shit and stuff. Go and wash while I dress.’
    â€˜I did wash. Dottie made me; she always does. And I’ve only got one clean shirt left, so I’d better keep that, hadn’t I? For tomorrow? If you like I can wash my hands in your wash basin, can’t I? There’s no soap in mine, Mum forgot to pack soap in my hand-grip. I think … I don’t know …’
    And so it begins. Life as father. I dressed quickly and we went down to the charnel house which was his room. I searched about in his meagre luggage and found, as Iexpected to find, a cake of soap squashed in his damp facecloth. Helen could be sluttish, but she had never failed as a good, thoughtful mother.
    â€˜I forgot it.’ Giles shrugged irritatedly, pulled off his shirt, sighed heavily, and washed while I leant out of his window and considered that even if I had exercised my paternal rights over my son’s cleanliness, it had cost me energy, time and probably his goodwill. The hell with it. Start as you mean to go on, they say. So I was starting.
    â€˜If we do stay here, I mean if you don’t change your mind, Arthur said that one day, when I learned enough French to talk to it, he’d give me a lovebird.’ He had pulled on his shirt, was buttoning up his collar. ‘You wouldn’t mind, would you?’
    I said that it depended on what sort of lovebird. If it made a row it would not be welcome. And who would look after it when he was at school, or wherever? This last remark caused a deep scowl; he brushed