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you knew it and a dreadful shock. At the funeral George put his arm around the weeping Florence and - well - she did not object. The next thing he knew he was engaged to her. It seemed the right thing to do. And Lilly was all but forgotten. Then it was wedding bells. After that nothing was what it had seemed. Even the sweetness of those cakes carried its own destruction. His teeth, as Lilly used to point out to him when they resumed their connection, were in a terrible condition. Fatherhood might have made up for most of what he had lost but he wasn't even allowed that. And this, he thought, is my life ...
    He made a few half-hearted attempts in the future. He showed Patrick how a screw went into wood and how to make a dove-tail joint. Which wood was good for what use, how a nut and bolt could hold more than two pieces of metal together, and the best way to grasp a ratchet wrench. And indeed, Patrick liked doing these things. But he was too good at them. The rudiments were not enough. George attempted to show him more sophisticated methods. He suggested that they make a swing together. Patrick asked if it could be a rope bridge instead. He drew one in firm but childish outline. George altered the drawing a little here and there but in essence - in essence - it was correct. He felt pleased to be doing something with the boy at last - almost he felt restored - but it came to nothing. Florence was not having it. Patrick was too weak (the boy coughed on cue), the rope was too flimsy - he might fall and hurt himself. George might have fathered a son but it was no more relevant than the bee stumbling out of the flower. If he had been made of mightier stuff, he knew, he might have drowned his sorrows in drink, might even have died of it. He wanted Lilly and he wanted her badly. But Florence kept a watchful eye. 'If I can see you up to your tricks,' she seemed to be saying, 'then so will everyone else.' Nothing, of course, was actually said.
    Dolly came to visit and Florence shared her fears with her. How did you let boys be boys without them killing themselves? Dolly commiserated, but she had a girl. Girls were different. They did not go out risking life and limb and wanting to screw things into wood and what not (little known to both women as they sat sipping their tea, at the end of the garden Patrick was showing Little Audrey exactly that -and she was fascinated). It was Florence's contention to Dolly that Patrick was different from other boys - more sensitive, more delicate, more thoughtful - and it was Dolly's contention to Florence that Little Audrey was no different from other girls at all. She liked pretty dresses, dolls and copying her mother and Dolly was thankful for it. Florence nodded in an understanding but superior way. Patrick was out of the ordinary. He would be somebody someday. Dolly thought to herself that he would be somebody spoilt someday, but she did not say so, valuing her long friendship. 'Unlike his father,' Florence said, 'Patrick will achieve something in this life. Whereas George just sits there in his chair and stares at the fire or the wall. Never does a thing.'
    They talked about school. Little Audrey just could not wait to go and she could already read a bit and knew her numbers up to ten. Patrick really ought to have started last year. Florence sniffed. School was a dreadful business as far as she was concerned and she did not like to think about it. She wanted Patrick to go to the smart private seminary. But there was nothing in the kitty for school fees. 'My poor little boy,' she said, stroking his head, 'you'll never manage it. Not that horrid, rough council school.' But Patrick had no choice. Another failure on George's part. In the caves of Neanderthals George would have been thrown out for the poor quality of his fresh-killed offerings.
    'If my Little Audrey can do it, so can he,' said Dolly firmly.
    'Your Audrey,' said Florence, choosing her words carefully, but they both knew what she meant,