for his father’s hand. ‘It’s a car, Seymour. It isn’t a woman.’
Byron laughed because he wanted his father to see the remark was not personal. In fact it was ha ha so hilarious you had to grip your stomach and howl. And considering the potential seriousness of the situation, it was also extremely clever. For someone who claimed to be uneducated, his mother was full of surprises. Byron caught Lucy’s eye and nodded, encouraging her to join in. Relief at not speaking the secret possibly got the better of both of them; Lucy was laughing so hard she appeared screwed up with it and her plaits were tipped with gravy. When Byron stole a sideways glance, he found his father’s upper lip had congealed. It was beaded with small drops of perspiration.
‘Are they laughing at me?’
‘Of course not,’ said his mother. ‘It really isn’t funny, children.’
‘I work all week.’ His father spoke carefully, enunciating the words as if they were difficult shapes between his teeth. ‘I do it all for you. I bought you a Jaguar. None of the other men buy their wives a Jaguar. The chap at the garage couldn’t believe his ears.’
The more he said, the older he seemed. His mother nodded her head and kept saying, ‘I know, darling, I know.’ There was an age gap between his parents of fifteen years but at that moment he seemed to be the only parent in the room. ‘Please. Can’t we do this after lunch?’ She threw a look at the children. ‘Black Forest gateau for sweet. Your favourite, darling.’
His father tried not to look pleased but it came out anyway, forcing his mouth into an infantile shape that looked pasted upside down. Thankfully here he picked up his knife and fork and they finished the meal in silence.
This was how it was with his father. Sometimes a child seemed to leap into his face and Seymour would grimace in order to push the child away.In the drawing room there were two framed photographs of him when he was a boy. The first was taken in his garden in Rangoon. He was dressed in a sailor suit, holding a bow and arrow. Behind him there were palm trees and large flowers, with petals the size of hands, but from the way he held his toys, away from his body, it looked as if he did not play with them. The second had been taken just after his parents had stepped off the boat in England. Seymour looked cold and frightened. He was staring at his feet and his sailor suit was all wrong. Even Seymour’s mother was not smiling. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ his father sometimes said to Byron. ‘For me, it was fighting all the way. We had nothing when we came back to England. Nothing.’
There were no photographs of Diana. She never spoke of her childhood. It was impossible to imagine her being anything except a mother.
In his bedroom, Byron re-examined his secret map of Digby Road. He wished Diana had not commented on Seymour’s habit of referring to the car as female. He wished he had not laughed. Of all the times to disagree with his father, this was surely the worst. It gave Byron a low, loose feeling in the stomach that reminded him of the way he felt about the cocktail party his parents had given for the Winston House parents the previous Christmas. Downstairs he could hear voices from the kitchen. He tried not to listen because his father had raised his voice but Byron found that even when he hummed he was still hearing. The lines on his map began to swim and the trees beyond his window were a scribble of green against the blue. Then suddenly the house fell so silent it was as if everyone had melted into dust. He tiptoed to the hall. He couldn’t even hear Lucy.
When he discovered his mother alone in the kitchen, Byron had to pretend he had run a long way, he was so frightened. ‘Where’s Father?’
‘He went back to London. He had work to do.’
‘He didn’t examine the Jaguar?’
She made a face as if she didn’t understand. ‘Why would he do that? He took a taxi to the
Byron laughed because he wanted his father to see the remark was not personal. In fact it was ha ha so hilarious you had to grip your stomach and howl. And considering the potential seriousness of the situation, it was also extremely clever. For someone who claimed to be uneducated, his mother was full of surprises. Byron caught Lucy’s eye and nodded, encouraging her to join in. Relief at not speaking the secret possibly got the better of both of them; Lucy was laughing so hard she appeared screwed up with it and her plaits were tipped with gravy. When Byron stole a sideways glance, he found his father’s upper lip had congealed. It was beaded with small drops of perspiration.
‘Are they laughing at me?’
‘Of course not,’ said his mother. ‘It really isn’t funny, children.’
‘I work all week.’ His father spoke carefully, enunciating the words as if they were difficult shapes between his teeth. ‘I do it all for you. I bought you a Jaguar. None of the other men buy their wives a Jaguar. The chap at the garage couldn’t believe his ears.’
The more he said, the older he seemed. His mother nodded her head and kept saying, ‘I know, darling, I know.’ There was an age gap between his parents of fifteen years but at that moment he seemed to be the only parent in the room. ‘Please. Can’t we do this after lunch?’ She threw a look at the children. ‘Black Forest gateau for sweet. Your favourite, darling.’
His father tried not to look pleased but it came out anyway, forcing his mouth into an infantile shape that looked pasted upside down. Thankfully here he picked up his knife and fork and they finished the meal in silence.
This was how it was with his father. Sometimes a child seemed to leap into his face and Seymour would grimace in order to push the child away.In the drawing room there were two framed photographs of him when he was a boy. The first was taken in his garden in Rangoon. He was dressed in a sailor suit, holding a bow and arrow. Behind him there were palm trees and large flowers, with petals the size of hands, but from the way he held his toys, away from his body, it looked as if he did not play with them. The second had been taken just after his parents had stepped off the boat in England. Seymour looked cold and frightened. He was staring at his feet and his sailor suit was all wrong. Even Seymour’s mother was not smiling. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are,’ his father sometimes said to Byron. ‘For me, it was fighting all the way. We had nothing when we came back to England. Nothing.’
There were no photographs of Diana. She never spoke of her childhood. It was impossible to imagine her being anything except a mother.
In his bedroom, Byron re-examined his secret map of Digby Road. He wished Diana had not commented on Seymour’s habit of referring to the car as female. He wished he had not laughed. Of all the times to disagree with his father, this was surely the worst. It gave Byron a low, loose feeling in the stomach that reminded him of the way he felt about the cocktail party his parents had given for the Winston House parents the previous Christmas. Downstairs he could hear voices from the kitchen. He tried not to listen because his father had raised his voice but Byron found that even when he hummed he was still hearing. The lines on his map began to swim and the trees beyond his window were a scribble of green against the blue. Then suddenly the house fell so silent it was as if everyone had melted into dust. He tiptoed to the hall. He couldn’t even hear Lucy.
When he discovered his mother alone in the kitchen, Byron had to pretend he had run a long way, he was so frightened. ‘Where’s Father?’
‘He went back to London. He had work to do.’
‘He didn’t examine the Jaguar?’
She made a face as if she didn’t understand. ‘Why would he do that? He took a taxi to the
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