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million?
    Then, as I see the woman looking at my bit of paper covered in scribbled numbers, an awful thought strikes me. What if one of my rejected sets of numbers actually comes up? What if 1 6 9 16 23 44 comes up tonight and I haven’t entered it? All my life, I’d never forgive myself.
    I quickly fill in tickets for all the combinations of numbers written on my bit of paper. That’s nine tickets in all. Nine quid—quite a lot of money, really. I almost feel bad about spending it. But then, that’s nine times as many chances of winning, isn’t it?
    And I now have a very good feeling about 1 6 9 16 23 44. Why has that particular set of numbers leapt into my mind and stayed there? Maybe someone, somewhere, is trying to tell me something.
     
Four
     
    WHEN I ARRIVE AT my parents’ house, they are in the middle of an argument. Dad is halfway up a stepladder in the garden, poking at the gutter on the side of the house, and Mum is sitting at the wrought-iron garden table, leafing through a Past Times catalogue. Neither of them even looks up when I walk through the patio doors.
    “All I’m saying is that they should set a good example!” Mum is exclaiming. She’s looking good, I think as I sit down. New hair color—pale brown with just a hint of gray—and a very nice red polo-neck jumper. Perhaps I’ll borrow that tomorrow.
    “And you think exposing themselves to danger is a good example, is it?” replies Dad, looking down from the ladder. He’s got quite a few more gray hairs, I notice with a slight shock. Mind you, gray hair looks quite distinguished on him. “You think that would solve the problem?”
    “Danger!” says Mum derisively. “Don’t be so melodramatic, Graham. Is that the opinion you really have of British society?”
    “Hi, Mum,” I say. “Hi, Dad.”
    “Becky agrees with me. Don’t you, darling?” says Mum, and points to a page of Past Times, full of 1930s reproduction jewelry and trinket boxes. “Lovely cardigan,” she adds
sotto voce
. “Look at that embroidery!” I follow her gaze and see a long, purple coatlike garment covered in colorful Art Deco swirls. I’d save the page and get it for her birthday—if I didn’t know she’ll probably have bought it herself by next week.
    “Of course Becky doesn’t agree with you!” retorts my dad. “It’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.”
    “No it’s not!” says Mum indignantly. “Becky, you think it would be a good idea for the royal family to travel by public transport, don’t you, darling?”
    “Well . . .” I say cautiously. “I hadn’t really . . .”
    “You think the queen should travel to official engagements on the ninety-three bus?” scoffs Dad.
    “And why not? Maybe then the ninety-three bus would become more efficient!”
    “So,” I say, sitting down next to Mum. “How are things?”
    “You realize this country is on the verge of gridlock?” says Mum, as if she hasn’t heard me. “If more people don’t start using public transport, our roads are going to seize up.”
    My dad shakes his head.
    “And you think the queen traveling on the ninety-three bus would solve the problem. Never mind the security problems, never mind the fact that she’d be able to do far fewer engagements . . .”
    “I didn’t mean the queen, necessarily,” retorts Mum. “But some of those others. Princess Michael of Kent, for example. She could travel by tube, every so often, couldn’t she? These people need to learn about real life.”
    The last time my mum traveled on the tube was about 1983.
    “Shall I make some coffee?” I say brightly.
    “If you ask me, this gridlock business is utter nonsense,” says my dad. He jumps down from the stepladder and brushes the dirt off his hands. “It’s all propaganda.”
    “Propaganda?” exclaims my mum in outrage.
    “Right,” I say hurriedly. “Well, I’ll go and put the kettle on.”
    I walk back into the house, flick the kettle on in the kitchen, and sit down