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say, arid they would chuckle, but uneasily, and edge away from me. In school I was a terror — but no, no, I'll spare you the schooldays. I noticed my mother was no longer much impressed by my g l o o m . Her smile, with that slight droop at the side, was turning positively sardonic. I said I had seen Charlie French in town. O h , Charlie, she said, and shook her head and laughed. I nodded. Poor Charlie, he is the kind of person about w h o m people say, O h , like that, and laugh. Another, listless silence. W h y on earth had I c o m e back here. I picked up the bottle, and was surprised to find it empty. I opened another, clamping it between my knees and swaying and grunting as I yanked at the cork. Ah! and out it came with a jolly pop. Outside on the lawn the last of the day's sunlight thickened briefly, then faded. My mother was asking after Daphne and the child. At the thought of them something like a great sob, lugubrious, faintly comical, ballooned under my breastbone. Jane — no, I can't call her that, it doesn't fit — J o a n cleared the table, and my mother produced, of all things, a decanter of port and pushed it across the table to me. Y o u won't want us to 50

    w i t h d r a w , will y o u ? she said, with that grin. Y o u can think of me as a m a n , a n y w a y , I ' m stndent e n o u g h . I began earnestly to tell her about my financial troubles, but got into a m u d d l e and had to stop. Besides, I suspected she was not really listening. She sat with her face half-turned to the nickel light of evening f r o m the w i n d o w , r h e u m -
    eyed and old, s h o w i n g the b r o a d b r o w and high cheekbones of her D u t c h forebears, K i n g Billyhs henchmen.
    Y o u should have a ruff, m a , I said, and a lace cap. I laughed loudly, then f r o w n e d . M y face was g o i n g n u m b .
    Jean carefully offered me a c u p of coffee. N o , thank y o u , my dear, I said gravely, in my grandee's voice, indicating my port-glass, which, I noticed, w a s unaccountably e m p t y .
    I refilled it, a d m i r i n g the steadiness of the hand that held the decanter. T i m e passed. Birds w e r e calling through the blue-grey dusk. I sat b e m u s e d , bolt-upright, in h a p p y misery, listening to them. T h e n with a snort and a heave I roused m y s e l f and l o o k e d a b o u t m e , s m a c k i n g my lips and blinking. M y m o t h e r and the girl w e r e g o n e .
    He died at evening. T h e r o o m w a s still heavy with the long day's heat. I sat on a chair beside his bed in the open w i n d o w and held his hand. His hand. T h e w a x e n feel of.
    H o w bright the air a b o v e the trees, bright and blue, like the limitless skies of childhood. I put my a r m a r o u n d him, laid a hand on his forehead. He said to m e : don't mind. her.
    He said to me —
    S t o p this, stop it. I w a s not there. I have not been present at anyone's death. He died alone, slipped a w a y while no o n e w a s l o o k i n g , leaving us to o u r o w n devices.
    By the time 1 arrived f r o m the city they had trussed h i m up, ready for the coffin. He lay on the bed with his hands folded on his breast and his eyes shut tight, like a child being g o o d . His hair w a s brushed in a neat lick across his forehead. His ears, I r e m e m b e r , w e r e very white.
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    Extraordinary: all that anger and resentment, that furious, unfocused energy: gone.
    I took what remained of the port and staggered a w a y upstairs. My knees quaked, I felt as if I were lugging a b o d y on my back. T h e light-switches seemed to have been m o v e d , in the half-darkness I kept banging into things, swearing and laughing. Then I found my w a y by mistake into Joanne's r o o m . (Joanne: that's it!) She must have been awake, listening to me barging about, I hardly got the d o o r open before she switched on her lamp. I stood teetering on the threshold, g o g g l i n g at her. She lay in a vast, sagging bed with the sheet pulled to her chin,