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what dirk?’
    He is halfway up the stairs by then so I leave it. I wish I had not started on the topic. I should have asked about the dog. He is probably fond of the dog after all this time. I imagine Ross and Jude running over fields. Crews Hill is far enough out of London for fields. The boys sit with their backs to a hedge and smoke dope and the dog, in the open air, escapes intoxication. I want to know more about Frances – what she looks like. But none of the boys answers that kind of question. Randal, though he possesses some visual sense, tends to say ‘Normal’ or ‘Short’. My father is not much use. Only my mother went in for detail.

12
    AN HOUR LATER, the doorbell rings. I switch on the hall light and walk along the passage. I open the door. A girl stands on the step.
    â€˜Hello,’ I say.
    â€˜Hello.’ The girl hangs back. ‘Is Ross in? He said to come round.’
    â€˜Hi. Yes, he is. Come on in.’
    The girl comes forward and onto the mat. Her head is down. When she looks up I see first a heart-shaped hairline, then her face. The girl wipes her feet. She is wearing heavy lace-up boots, jeans, a dark coat with a hood and a bulky woollen scarf that is wound several times round her neck.
    â€˜I’m Lorna, his mum.’
    The girl nods.
    â€˜Ross’s room is off the half landing. Follow the music.’ I notice the discarded baked-bean tin and pick it up. The spoon rattles inside like coins in a charity collection box. I hold the tin, smiling foolishly as the girl strides up the stairs two steps at a time, with her outdoor clothes on. The house sighs and sags.
    When the food is ready I go into the hall and call. Above my head, the bass beat continues. I eat. Every now and then, footsteps thud across the floor. In a small house there is no privacy and yet in any one room, behind a closed door, anything could be happening. It is like the workings of the brain. The family living area is the prefrontal cortex and the rooms upstairs are the amygdala where neurons growl and rattle their chains. On the worktop, the food cools. I help myself to crispy bits of chicken skin.
    Ross slopes into the kitchen soon after half-past eight, the girl behind him.
    â€˜There’s chicken. Three-quarters of a bird. Some roast veg. Probably a bit cold by now but you can stick it in the microwave. Help yourselves. Guess who I saw in Grovelands Park coming back from Grandad’s?’ I say.
    Ross ignores my question and begins to rummage in the fridge.
    â€˜Mr Child,’ I say. ‘He was sitting by the lake, looking soulful. Ross, can you get your head out of there. What are you looking for?’
    â€˜Something to eat.’
    I explain again and in more detail what the options are.
    â€˜What did you do with my prawn balls?’
    â€˜Threw them out.’
    â€˜You can’t do that. They were mine. There were two left.’
    â€˜You should have eaten them last week. They don’t keep.’
    â€˜But I’ve only just remembered them.’
    â€˜Tough.’ I turn to the girl. ‘Sorry about the trivial level of conversation in this house.’
    â€˜No worries,’ the girl says.
    â€˜I’m going to make toast, Jude. Brown or white?’ Ross says.
    â€˜You’re Jude?’ I say on a rising inflection.
    â€˜Ye-es,’ she says cautiously and glances at Ross for reassurance. ‘Who did your mum think I was?’
    Her hair is as dark as pickled walnuts and she wears it part-shoved behind her ears. Her eyes turn down at the corners like teardrops on their sides. She is the same height as Ross; sturdy, in a lean way. In a howling gale, she will stand firm. She bears no resemblance to the parents of my imagination.
    â€˜Sometimes I’m a bit dim. You live in Crews Hill, don’t you, Jude? Tell me about it. I’ve never been there.’
    Ross squirms. ‘We’ve come to get food. Don’t make