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had reached the bottom of the hill. Gardens became paved with pastel stone set round a single palm tree. Serpentine box bushes flanked each front door. The two bombed, rebuilt houses were now indistinguishable from the others.
    The people in the houses were very different too. There were no servants living in, except for nannies who had apartments on top floors and cars to take the children to school. Husbands were not much in evidence except when out jogging early and late—in their ski-suits. They were called “partners.” The women Mr. Jones thought looked rather like rats. Anxious rats with frightening jobs in the City—or in several cities—and in what seemed to Mr. Jones their late middle age they appeared in couture maternity clothes that emphasised their condition so grossly that he had to look away. Huge, set-piece firework parties took place at Guy Fawkes and Christmas and at Hallowe’en and Thanksgiving, for the road was now international, and the façades were covered in webs of fairy lights. His neighbours told him they could get him more than two million for his house, but he didn’t seem to understand.
    He managed very well, still under the discipline of his long-dead mother. A firm cleaned for him and did the garden, and another firm his laundry. The Jones money seemed to be holding out, managed (at a price) by a London solicitor. The church next door—“My church,” he called it—helped with shopping, ran in with cakes and marmalade, looked after him when he was ill—which was almost never—and saw to his flu jabs. When he had been a sidesman for over fifty years the church bought him a television and video recorder, which he ignored. A neighbour asked what would become of the house when he ... when he could no longer look after himself and Mr. Jones said that it was left to the church, who planned to expand. He wanted to do something for the homeless.
    The neighbours became less certain of the charm of Mr. Jones after they learned about the homeless, and less certain still when their children joined the infant school on the Common and they discovered that Mr. Jones sat watching them every afternoon.
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    One morning Mr. Jones stood at his bathroom window, drying himself on a hard towel, and saw a policeman standing in his back garden.
    Very odd.
    He dressed and walked downstairs to the kitchen where he set the kettle on the stove, and the policeman was looking at him through the half-glazed kitchen door.
    â€œHello?” said Mr. Jones, opening it.
    â€œGood morning, sir. I came round the back. Didn’t want to draw attention. Left the car on the corner by the church.”
    â€œCome in. Would you like some tea?”
    â€œNo tea, thank you, sir.” The policeman looked into the distance, rather ill at ease.
    â€œIs something the matter?”
    â€œThere have been complaints, sir.”
    â€œAbout me? My accountant says we can have the house repainted next year.”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    â€œI agree. It’s a disgrace. I can’t think what my mother—”
    â€œIt’s about the children on the Common, sir. It’s said you go there every day?”
    â€œYes. Yes, I do. For many years I am proud to say, in all weathers.”
    â€œJust to look at the children, sir?”
    â€œOh yes. I have always been with children on the Common. I was the little one, you see. The youngest. A large family. All the rest of us are dead now.”
    â€œYou are very fond of children, sir?”
    Mr. Jones poured his tea and thought about it. “As a matter of fact, no. Not of children per se.”
    â€œPure what, sir?”
    â€œI’m not fond of people just because they begin as children. To tell you the truth I’m more fond of dogs. I miss my dogs. The children miss my dogs. I had to have them put down, you know.”
    â€œI’m sorry, sir. But, if you don’t care for children, why do