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if from a geyser. ‘Bloody catch!’
    â€˜Stop that!’ snapped Frances. ‘Now let’s have a look.’ She moved to take his hand off his arm and he snatched it away.
    â€˜It’s no use getting angry , it hurts!’
    â€˜Don’t shout! I just want to see, that’s all –’
    Movement in the doorway: Robert, concerned and kind.
    â€˜Sorry, Tom, that catch is a bugger, isn’t it? You okay?’
    Tom, transfixed at being treated like one of Robert’s mates, stopped crying immediately. ‘Yes, thanks.’
    â€˜I was trying to have a look …’ said Frances, as if she had to justify herself for something.
    â€˜Want to show us, Tom?’
    Tom sniffed, wiping his eyes with the bad arm; Frances saw a long red weal.
    â€˜We’d better put something on that,’ she said. ‘No wonder you were crying.’
    He shook his head. ‘It’s okay.’
    â€˜But –’
    â€˜I said it’s okay , Frances.’ He ran his nose along the other arm and stamped through to the kitchen. ‘I’m starving. I’m starving!’ They heard him running across the patched sticky lino and down the wooden passage. Frances looked at Robert and shook her head.
    â€˜He’s tired.’
    â€˜Of course he is. You must be too.’
    â€˜Not too bad.’ She followed him into the house, and along to the dining-room, where the others were waiting.
    This first meal all together had been fractionally strained, after such a beginning, at least for the first few minutes, but a couple of glasses of wine had everyone unwinding; then they all went upstairs to collapse.
    And Robert now, coming down to the kitchen, found that the door to the steps was open, with a patch of sun lying across the floor, and went to have a look outside. Tom was sitting next to a scrawny, dull-furred grey and white cat, talking to it quietly, encouragingly.
    â€˜There you are, you eat it all up. Is that better?’ Beside him was a plate of chicken – remains from last night’s supper: quite a few remains, which Robert had last seen in the fridge. The cat ate slowly, with difficulty; at the sound of his footsteps it stopped, and looked up, apprehensive, ears flat. Tom turned round.
    â€˜Isn’t she beautiful?’
    â€˜I – yes,’ said Robert, ‘but I’m not really sure she should be having that chicken.’
    â€˜But she was starving, I could hear her, outside the door. She was crying.’
    â€˜Oh. Well … perhaps another time we’d better find some scraps. D’you think?’
    â€˜Okay.’ He turned back to the cat again, and she resumed eating, cautiously, looking up with wary yellow eyes. Robert moved back inside and put the kettle on, dropping the spent match into a white saucer. Through the open door he could hear Tom making noises, a blend of back-of-the-throat Donald Duck and a pursing and smacking of the lips; he tried to remember if Jack used to be quite so audible all the time, and didn’t think so. The room smelled faintly of Calor gas, and the kettle began to heat up; when he’d put everything on the tray, with a packet of biscuits from the village shop, he went to the door again, leaning on the frame. Tom was stroking the cat as she crunched on gristle, his hand running along her back to a thin, unhealthy tail.
    â€˜I’ve adopted her,’ he told Robert.
    â€˜That’s kind. Be a bit careful touching her, though, won’t you?’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜Well … she looks as if she’s got a lot of germs and fleas and things.’
    â€˜All cats get fleas sometimes.’
    â€˜Yes, but you know animals here aren’t used to being petted – people don’t feel quite the same about them as we do. She might scratch, or bite, and it could be a bit nasty.’
    â€˜She won’t scratch me,’ said Tom firmly.
    â€˜Well, just be a bit careful,