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mother must have gone to bed. He went along the passage as silently as he could, and, safely in his room, flung himself on his bed without undressing. He felt dirty and his head ached.
    He hauled a pillow out from under the bedspread and arranged it to ease his throbbing temples. He had had enough of this kind of game, he decided. Maybe he could settle down a bit now, quit high school, travel – and write. It would be good to get out of Tollemarche, out of Alberta, and see the world a bit. Suddenly, he was asleep.
    He woke up only when his mother slammed the front door as she went out to church. He lay quietly, with a comfortable feeling of pleasant anticipation of the day before him, imagining his mother in her pale blue Sunday outfit getting her European car out of the garage and manoeuvring it down to the United Church. Time was, he remembered, when she had attended the Greek Orthodox Church, where he also had gone when small, but its splendour had palled when she had realized that more fashionable people belonged to the United Church. Hank chuckled, and then winced when he moved his head suddenly. Even God could be fashionable.
    He got up, took a shower, combed his hair with care and put on a new black T-shirt. Then he ate a dish of cornflakes while wandering around the kitchen, and went out to look at the Triumph, still parked in front of the house. His mother would imagine some stranger had parked his car there. But the car was his and she was beautiful. He loved her like a woman and he ran his hands lightly over her as if she would respond to his touch. She was silent and acquiescent, however, so he climbed in and drove her round several blocks, just for the joy of it, taking the sharp corners so fast that her tires shrieked in protest. Then he went slowly back to within two blocks of home, drove up the back lane and stopped before the old wooden garage which he had rented for so many years from Isobel Dawson.
    As he entered the garden through the back gate, Isobel got up from in front of a flower bed where she had been planting bulbs. He was pleased to see her looking less pale than when he had last seen her, and she grinned at him with something of her old cheerfulness. She wore a shabby, tweed skirt and a turtleneck sweater which had shrunk slightly, making her look even smallerthan usual. She had no makeup on and her long fair hair was twisted into a knot on top of her head. Hank could not imagine how she managed to look so elegant in such an outfit; the concepts of breeding and natural grace were unknown to him, and the quiet air of command she had scared him slightly. All he knew was that compared with the trollop he had been with the day before, she was like a princess, a very untouchable snow princess seven years older than he, who had recently lost her husband.
    Fear of hurting her in any way made him abrupt. “Got something to show you,” he announced without preamble.
    “Oh?” she queried in her soft, clipped English voice. Dorothy’s voice held a distinct Welsh singsong, but years in London had worn away any trace of it from Isobel’s speech.
    “Yeah, come on outside.”
    Still holding a trowel in one dirty hand, she followed his huge, droopy figure into the lane.
    “My goodness!” she exclaimed. “What a lovely car!”
    She walked all round his precious beauty and admired its finer points. Finally, she came to a stop beside him and looked up at him with a serious, troubled air.
    “You know, Hank, the car is very nice indeed, but is it wise to buy it just at present?”
    He was immediately defiant, his black eyes narrowed and his mouth hard.
    “Why not? It’s my money, isn’t it? I can do what I like.”
    She answered him gently, pushing a loose lock back into her bun as she did so.
    “Yes, my dear, it is your money, and you really earned it. The car is lovely – but do you think you should flash money around yet – I mean, before the town knows how you came by it?” She stopped, then