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medicine in Leipzig, but the process was full of red tape and after contacting the new East German embassy in Belgrave Square he couldn’t see a way, at least not until he graduated. And so he decided on the city his father was aiming for when he was captured and where he himself had first tasted Germany.
    Thanks to Mr Tamlyn’s efforts, an interview was arranged at UKE in the Easter of Peter’s last year at St Cross. Over a leisurely meeting he was tested for his knowledge of the German language, biology, chemistry and Latin. The admissions tutor was an Anglophile with a reedy voice who kept insisting that medical education was so much better in England. Nonetheless, he was prepared to accept Peter’s four A levels in lieu of a baccalaureate, the offer conditional on his results and on his agreement to spend the gap year improving his German. “University study is free. Accommodation you will have to pay for.”
    â€œTremendous news,” said Rodney. “Of course, I’ll foot the bills.”
    Feebly his mother said, “You do realise, darling, Hamburg is a very different place from Leipzig.”
    Rendered more and more incoherent by Alzheimer’s, his grandfather told Peter his opinion. His mind was perishing and he fuddled through his days and nights without recourse to the Black Dog. “Walter Hammond was the finest cover fielder that England has ever had. You can take Bradman out and pee all over him.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    O N THE EVE OF Peter’s departure for Germany, Rodney’s old school chum Joseph Silkleigh came to dinner. Rodney had been a little startled to hear from him. He had only the dimmest recollection of Silkleigh at school. Nor could Peter’s mother understand why they had to entertain a virtual stranger on Peter’s last night.
    â€œI’ve never heard you mention his name before.”
    â€œI tried to put him off,” said Rodney, defensively, “but he’s in England only till tomorrow. He has some wheeze to sell printing-machines in North Africa.”
    His mother had wanted the occasion to be a special one, but Silkleigh’s arrival threw her into such turmoil that she burned the sprouts. Not that Silkleigh minded. “I say, Mrs Hithersay, these are splendid.”
    Despite the fact that Silkleigh didn’t draw breath all through dinner, Peter was at a loss to understand what he did. He seemed to spend a lot of time frog-diving off a Spanish enclave named Abyla (“a place of contradictions where anything can happen”). He was also writing a book about his life. He had stalled on this for several years while the title eluded him, but now he had it.
    â€œI’m well into volume one, old soul. Well in. The whole thing’s going swimmingly.”
    â€œWhat’s it called?” asked Rodney politely. He pushed away his plate.
    â€œ Pain Has No Memory .”
    Peter wondered if Silkleigh was joking, but he didn’t seem to be. When Rosalind giggled, Rodney asked swiftly: “And you have a publisher?”
    â€œNot yet, not yet. As a matter of fact I was rather hoping, following this sumptuous repast,” winking at Peter’s mother, “you might point me in the right direction. You see, Abyla’s a little out of the literary loop. So I racked my brains and I remembered you, Rodders. I have to tell you, young Peter, your father was a bit of a poet at school, weren’t you, old soul?”
    â€œWere you, Rodney?” asked Peter’s mother with a dubious look.
    â€œI did write one or two poems,” he admitted, “but I seem to recall they were pretty dire.”
    â€œOh, but one had to be kind to one’s young self,” said Silkleigh.
    Rodney dredged up the name of an editor in Donhead St Mary who many years before had commissioned a book jacket. His offer to write on Silkleigh’s behalf brought a beam to the face of his guest.
    â€œThat’s the marvellous