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because he knows that secrets will hurt them. They have had to make the conscious effort to be transparent with one another. It is one of the essential requirements of a marriage such as theirs, to avoid misunderstandings and the breeding of corrosive resentment. It means therefore that any gripes are put down to superficial, bachelor selfishness, laziness, or lapses in judgement; trifles that can be rowed over and then quickly resolved.
    His plan is to wheel her back to the car as soon as she reappears, avoiding the McDonalds concession, KFC, and the children’s play area. The precautions, should he have to explain them, are ridiculous. There is no emotionalmeltdown waiting to happen in the space between the mechanical fire engine and giant revolving tea cup. She is too empty to do that. He only wants to hide these things from her for as long as he can. Pretend that there are no children in the world, that they are as rare as baby eagles or panda cubs. Make it seem like it is a miracle for everybody.
    But something about the new dressing energizes her. She is not to be shaken off, wanting to visit the shop to pick up a token for Pat. The gift store, opposite all that he wishes to disappear, is as claustrophobic and depressing as any he has encountered on the side of the motorway. Still, there is a shine to Claud that the flat strip-lighting cannot diminish; perked up by the piles of outdated CDs and tartan car blankets.
    â€˜Two for £25 it says. I could use one in the car now and give the other to Mum.’
    â€˜It’s terribly made. Look at the label. Says it’s a wool-poly blend. Listen to how it crinkles up. It’s like plastic.’
    â€˜I like them. They’re pretty.’
    â€˜Since when have you been into tartan?’
    â€˜It’s not a question of being into. Tartan’s something everyone’s brought up with in Britain.’
    Those final two words, randomly chosen to put him in his place. His parents were not born in England. He wouldn’t understand. It is something from Sam’s repertoire, picked up so thoughtlessly, used so often. Shedoes not know that she is even doing it; does not know what it means.
    â€˜It might not seem like a big deal, but we cannot do Sunday lunch without Yorkshires. Bring that dinner out from an English pub kitchen and they’d have your balls on a plate . . . Yes, I know it sounds like the cast of Billy Smart’s circus, but my daughter really does need four ushers, two page boys, and two flower girls. That’s how it’s done in this part of the world.’
    Bigots do not raise ugliness in their daughters, just a certainty of where their place is, and what is right. For all her education, wit, compassion, Claud is guaranteed to fall into the tartan setting every once in a while, usually when they are snappy and close to argument. It is as natural as temper, right as rain.
    He thinks of some of Puppa’s friends from the ’70s, and their marriages. A stream of white wives crying in Ma’s kitchen surprised at being beaten for similar displays of indigenous expression. There are one or two husbands he remembers in particular, chubby Indian beefcakes, stinking of the card table and taking no shit. Filthy tempers. The kind of men who would think nothing of giving the woman a slap beside the lopsided pile of wool-poly tartan blankets.
    Slapping is not an option, inconceivable, but there are other forms of cruelty. He can protect her until she is smothered by concern, for example. Or, more easily, hecan throw her to the wolves, leaving her to fend for herself once he remembers that he still needs a slash. A party of school kids are stampeding towards the crisp aisle. Thirty of them, fresh from the cramped hire coach and ready to use their feet.
    â€˜See you at the car. Probably easier.’
    He watches as she takes a deep breath, kidding himself that it is the choices between blanket colours which is making her cheeks