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she waved her hand at the window. “People. Men. ” And I suddenly thought, she’s right. But then I looked at her, sitting there like a scarecrow with her jumper covered in dog hair, and I thought, I don’t want to be like you . So I said, “How can you like living here? You’ve got water running down the walls every time it rains.” I’ve offered her the money to fix it enough times, but she won’t take it.
    “There’s nothing wrong with it.”
    “It’s falling to pieces.”
    “It’s fine. I like it—doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. That’s something I’ve learned—animals are the only ones that don’t let you down.”
    I’m never very relaxed around my mum and I find it quite hard to talk to her, but I thought, what the hell, she’s not getting any younger, so I said, “Did my father let you down?”
    “Oh, that’s all mumbo-jumbo. He’s got nothing to do with it. Or with you. He was barely there when you were conceived, never mind afterwards.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “He was drunk.”
    “Why didn’t—”
    “He was married. Married as well as drunk. Anyway, I like being on my own.”
    “You sound like Greta Garbo.” She shrugged. “You’ve never minded what people thought, have you?”
    “That’s a bit rich coming from someone who went to work with a rabbit’s tail stuck on her backside.”
    “You never told me you didn’t approve.”
    “I neither approved nor disapproved. It’s your life. Come on, it’s time for me to see to the animals. You’d better be on your way.” She tipped the cat off her lap and opened the door. I wanted to carry on talking but I knew she wouldn’t so I got up and went down the steps. When I turned to say good-bye she was standing in the doorway with her two Jack Russells, tying plastic shopping bags over her shoes to keep off the mud. She looked so self-contained I thought, she doesn’t need me, so I said—on the spur of the moment—“Do you want me to come again? It’s just that I’m not sure if you want me here, that’s all.”
    She looked surprised. “Of course I want you here. I always look forward to your visits.”
    I thought, you could have told me, but when I thought about it later I realised that she must be lonely, too. She always seemed to me like some sort of impregnable fort—no, wrong word, because I’m here, aren’t I? I used to think my father was the great love of her life—not that she ever said so. I’d just pretended—hoped—but at least it could have been a dashing young soldier, not some married, middle-aged letch out for a night on the tiles, which is what she made it sound like . . . at least, it didn’t sound as if she’d fancied him very much. She said he’s dead, anyway, so I couldn’t go and find him even if I wanted to, which I don’t.
    I’ve wondered recently if people see me like that—self-contained. I’ve thought about it a lot, though, why I came here. All my friends thought I’d gone mad. They kept ringing up and asking if I was okay on my own. But it’s been nearly nine months now, and I still think it was the right decision . . . I would be lonely without Eustace, though. That was one of the weirdest days of my life, getting him, and believe me, living with Lenny, I’ve had a few of those. I wanted to get a stray, or a dog that nobody wanted, so I went to the shelter and walked down the row of pens and all these lovely dogs rushed up to the wire and wagged their tails and stood on their hind legs and tried to lick my hand and I couldn’t begin to choose, I wanted to take them all. But right at the end of the row there was one dog that didn’t move. A basset hound, brown and white, he just lay at the back of the pen on his stomach in a perfect straight line with his back legs tucked in neatly like a sugar mouse, great stubby front paws stuck out on either side of his chops and big velvet ears spread out on the ground like pools of gravy. He’d got his eyes closed, but he