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Verulam?”
    “You’ve met him, Faye, I’m sure,” my father said. Faye glanced over at her husband. “Colleague of mine. Known him for years.”
    “Yes, I think I must have,” she said quickly. “I … I think with Emmeline once.”
    My mother’s name occasioned the usual subliminal tremor. It was more than I could have hoped for.
    The next day we saw them off on the train for Fort William. Vincent supervised the porters loading their luggage, guns and hampers. I stood by Faye.
    “Why don’t you write to me, John?” she said. “I’d love to hear how you’re getting on.”
    “I’m afraid my spelling’s useless.”
    “So’s mine. Doesn’t matter a jot.”
    “Well … all right.” I paused. “Aunt Faye … about Donald Verulam. You met him with my mother.”
    “Yes.…” Odd expression. “They were good friends, now that I remember. She often mentioned him.”
    “When?”
    “In her letters mostly. She wrote to me every week, you know, Emmeline and I—for years.” She looked round. “I think we’re off.” She bent down and looked me in the eye.
    “Why don’t you come and see us, Johnny? I’d love to get to know you better.” She cupped my cheeks with her hands. “Have you ever been to England?”
    “Not yet.”
    I looked into that kind face, those bruised, hinting eyes. She kissed my cheek. Her own cheek brushed mine, a powdery softness, a scent of some wildflower—musky, dry, promiscuous.
    Donald Verulam and I sit in a tearoom on the High Street in Newhaven. We have spent the afternoon taking photographs of the fishermen and the fishwives around the little harbor. We drink tea, eat large slabs of bread and butter, potato scones and jam, waiting for the charabanc to take us back to Edinburgh.
    Donald fills his cup from a heavy brown teapot. He has a slight frown—he seems to be thinking about something. He runs his hand over his head, smoothing down the few strands of hair on his pate. His face looks thinner, more ascetic than usual. He takes out his pipe, fills it with shag and lights it. Plumy smoke snorts from his nostrils.
    On the chair beside us sit our cameras in their boxes (I have a newSanderson), the leather already much dulled and scarred from constant use, the corners bumped and softened. I spread raspberry jam on my bread and butter. The ligaments in my jaw crack audibly as I take a huge bite. Donald eases back in his chair, his pipe going well, crosses one corduroyed leg over the other and loosens his tie at his throat. One booted foot taps slightly to a hidden personal rhythm.
    The lady who runs the tea shop approaches. She has a thin aristocratic face, her hair folded up on her head in an old-fashioned style. An agate brooch at her throat winks light as she passes through a wand of afternoon sun. Outside a dogcart clops by, a slow rumble of iron wheels on the cobbles. From the back garden comes the contented gurgling of hens.
    “Will you be having any more tea, sir?” A nice voice—educated, soft.
    “Thank you, no,” Donald says.
    She glances at me.
    “No, thanks.”
    We all smile at each other. Donald goes, “Hmmmm …” I look out of the window. Opposite a sign reads: W. & J . ANDERSON’S SMITHY, IRONMONGERY . Someone walks by wheeling two empty milk churns in a barrow. A kind of buzzing tranquillity seems to fill my ears. I realize, consciously, for the first time ever, that I am happy. This moment is a watershed in anyone’s life. It is the beginning of responsibility.
    “Mr. Verulam,” I say, “did you ever meet my mother’s sister, my aunt, Faye Hobhouse?”
    “Faye Hobhouse?… Oh yes, Faye Dale. In fact I met her before I met your mother. Vincent was in my college at Oxford.”
    The buzzing in my ears seems to have developed into a roar.
    “When I got my job up here, Faye introduced me to your mother and father.”
    I needed no more evidence. Here was a web of falsehood and duplicity. They were old friends. Why had Faye pretended not to know