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know why the words caused me such pain. Or perhaps it wasn’t pain, perhaps it was rage. Henry was a squalling, fretful baby; I had felt almost nothing but irritation towards him while he was alive, which I knew was inexcusable with a child so ill. Now it was too late to make amends. Upstairs was my wife, utterly distraught, who had made it clear that she did not want me near her. And in walks a man who knows I am not a believer and tells me my child is at peace in the arms of the Lord.
    I remember I had some trouble getting the words out and, when I managed, they came out through my teeth and with some force.
    I said, “Have you any idea how
offensive
that sounds to someone who does not share your faith?”
    I remember the pleasure I felt as his face went first white and then deep red. I remember the silence that followed as he searched for and failed to find anything to say. I loathed him at that moment almost as much as I loathed myself.
    Why am I writing about this? First my father and now the once-Reverend James Thomas! Why am I reliving events dead and gone and beyond redemption? It’s my birthday. I should be thinking about something cheerful or at least interesting. I should be thinking about Rome.
    The Pantheon. I will think about the Pantheon. That is worth dwelling on. Augustus dedicated it to the planetary gods—the dome represents the firmament. The opening at the top is called an
oculus
, from the Latin meaning “eye.” Apparently there are holes in the floor beneath it to allow rainwater to drain away. I doubt that would work here. Not with a snowfall like we’re having today. The whole building would simply fill up with snow. Lift up the dome and you’d find an igloo.

CHAPTER THREE
Tom
    Struan, January 1969
    He had turned the big winged armchair towards the window so that one of the wings shielded him from the rest of the room, which was why his father hadn’t noticed him when he’d stuck his head out of the study to roar at the others. The roaring didn’t bother Tom—in fact, it barely registered—but he’d automatically glanced up and as he was about to return to his paper a movement caught his eye: Adam, his youngest brother—no, second-youngest, as of a week ago—straightening up from a crouching position on the floor. He’d been playing with his Matchbox toys right outside the door of their father’s study and must have curled himself into a ball, arms over his head, to protect himself from the blast. Now he was unfurling.
    Their eyes met. It had been many months since Tom had noticed much of anything that took place either within his family or outside it, but he couldn’t help noticing the anxiety in his younger brother’s eyes and it struck him that a kid that age shouldn’t be looking like that. Tom wondered vaguely how to reassure him. Make light of things, maybe. Turn their father’s temper into a joke.
    Keeping his voice down so that their father wouldn’t hear, he said, “I reckon he was a little bit annoyed. Whaddya think?”
    Adam nodded but didn’t look particularly reassured. Maybe he was too young for humour.
    “He wasn’t mad at you, you know,” Tom said. Probably their father hadn’t even noticed him down there at his feet.
    Another nod. Still not reassured.
    Tom couldn’t think of anything else to say so he returned to his paper. He read
The Globe and Mail
cover to cover, world news to racing results, every day; it was fascinating, every word of it, and it took up almost all of his free time. He had a lot of free time nowadays, more than he wanted, but the number of jobs you could find in a place the size of Struan involving no contact with people was limited, and that was his chief requirement. At the moment he drove the town’s one and only snowplough, perched up high in the draughty, freezing cab, peering through the frosted windscreen, blinded by flying snow, terrified of mowing someone down. Once he’d pushed Paul Jackson’s snow-covered Buick twenty