Children Of Dynmouth

6

‘I think I’m going to try and cut the grass,’ Quentin Featherston said as he and Lavinia washed up the dishes after the Mothers’ Union tea-party, which had been even more trying than usual. When Miss Poraway had mentioned a Tupperware party Mrs Stead-Carter had gone much further than she’d ever gone before. She’d pointed out that it was stupid to talk about Tupperware parties as a means of raising funds since funds raised at Tupperware parties naturally went to the manufacturers of Tupperware. Miss Poraway said there were other parties of a similar nature, at which suede jackets and coats were modelled, and sometimes underclothes. In greater exasperation Mrs Stead-Carter said she’d never heard anything as silly in her life: the Mothers’ Union in Dynmouth had neither Tupperware nor suede clothes nor underclothes at its disposal, Miss Poraway’s whole line of conversation was a waste of time. She failed to see, Mrs Stead-Carter finally declared, why it was that Miss Poraway, who had never been a mother, should concern herself with the Mothers’ Union in the first place. Miss Poraway had at once become tearful and Lavinia had had to take her to the kitchen. Mrs Abigail, she’d told Lavinia, had called her a fool that morning just because she dropped a tin plate when they were doing Meals on Wheels. Dynmouth was becoming a nasty kind of place.

‘Poor Miss Poraway,’ Quentin said as they washed the tea dishes, and Lavinia – not feeling agreeably disposed towards Miss Poraway – did not say anything. She wished she could say she was sorry now, not in the middle of the night when he was asleep. It wasn’t his fault; he did his best. It wasn’t easy for him, all those women bickering and only a handful of people out of Dynmouth’s thousands ever setting foot in his church, and Mr Peniket sighing over the decline of church life. She wished she could say she knew she was being difficult and edgy, taking it out on him because she’d been denied another child. But although she tried to speak, actually tried to form words and force them out of her mouth, no words came. They washed and dried in silence, and then the twins appeared with lemon cake all over them.

‘Tidying,’ Susannah said.

‘No, that’s not true,’ Lavinia protested. ‘You’ve been eating cake.’

‘Tidying on the floor,’ Deborah said.

‘Tidying crumbs,’ Susannah said.

‘I wish just once you’d tell the truth.’ Lavinia was angry. A day didn’t pass now during which it failed to occur to her that she had borne two congenital liars. Jam fell like rain, cake had to be tidied on the floor. ‘Mouses making buns,’ Deborah had said the afternoon before when flour and raisins had been discovered in a corner. ‘Mouses can have party,’ Susannah had added. ‘And games,’ Deborah said. ‘Mouses can have games if they want to.’

Lavinia, still scolding, wiped the crumbs from their cardigans.

‘Twins didn’t eat one crumb,’ Susannah assured her.

‘Mouses did,’ Deborah explained. ‘Two mouses came out of the chair.’

‘You come and watch me cutting the grass,’ Quentin suggested, but the twins shook their heads, not understanding because such a long time had passed since there’d last been grass-cutting. They suspected, however, that whatever it was their father intended to do the activity would prove dull to watch. Watching wasn’t often interesting.

Already Quentin had begun to tidy up the garden for the Easter Fête. He’d pulled up the first spring weeds from the flower-beds, little shoots of dandelion and dock and Scotch grass. He’d poked at the soil with a hoe to give it a fresh look. He’d cleared away a lot of last autumn’s leaves.

In the garage he examined a machine called a Suffolk Punch, a lawnmower that was now exactly ten years old. It had been lying idle since a Saturday afternoon in October, with begonia tubers in its grass-box and a bundle of yellowing newspapers balanced on its engine. The bundle was tied together with string and had been left there and forgotten one morning when Lavinia was in a hurry. She collected old newspapers and milk-bottle tops and silver paper for the Girl Guides.

Quentin hated the Suffolk Punch. He hated it especially now as he dragged it out of its corner in the garage, squeezed it between his Vauxhall Viva estate car and the twins’ tricycles, and rolled it on to the uneven surface in front of the garage doors. He pulled at the starting device, a coil of plastic-covered wire that snapped obediently back into position after each attempt to engage the engine. No sound came from the engine, no promising little cough, and naturally enough no roar of action. You could spend all day pulling the plastic-covered coil, the skin coming off your hands, sweat gathering all over you. You could take the plug out and examine it, not knowing what you were looking for. You could poke at it with a screwdriver or a piece of wire and wipe it with a piece of rag. You could take it to the kitchen and put it under the grill of the electric cooker in order to get it hot, without knowing why it should be hot.

He pulled the coil of plastic-covered wire forty times, pausing between every ten or a dozen efforts. A smell of petrol developed, as it usually did.

‘All right then, Mr Feather?’ the voice of Timothy Gedge enquired.

The boy was standing there, smiling at him for the second time that day. He attempted to smile back at him, but found it difficult. The same uneasy feeling he’d experienced that morning returned, and he realized now why it came: of all the people of Dynmouth this boy in his adolescence was the single exception. He could feel no Christian love for him.

‘Hullo, Timothy.’

‘Having trouble with the cutter then?’

‘I’m afraid I am.’ In the garage there was a kind of spanner, a hexagonal tube with a bar going through it, that was designed to remove plugs from engines. He went to look for it, remembering that he had used it a couple of times since October, trying to take the plugs out of the estate car. He disliked the estate car almost as much as the Suffolk Punch, which was why he preferred to make his way around the streets of Dynmouth on a bicycle. He disliked the English Electric washing-machine in the kitchen, especially the button which was meant to operate the door-release and quite often didn’t. He disliked the transistor radio he’d saved up for to get Lavinia for her birthday three years ago. No sound had emerged from it for six months: spare parts were hard to get, Dynmouth Hi-Fi Boutique informed him.

To his surprise, he found the hexagonal spanner on the ledge in the garage where it was meant to be. He returned to the lawn-mower with it. Timothy Gedge was still standing there. The way he kept hanging about him, Quentin wondered if he had perhaps decided to become a clergyman again.

‘You find what you want then, sir? Only I spoke to Dass about the curtains, Mr Feather.’

‘Curtains?’

‘I mentioned curtains to you this morning, sir.’

Quentin unscrewed the brass nipple on the end of the plug and disengaged the lead. He fitted the hexagonal spanner around the plug and turned it. The plug was wet with petrol and oil. There was a shell of carbon around the points. He never knew if there should be carbon there or not.

‘Dass is going to donate them, sir.’

‘Donate?’

‘A set of curtains, sir.’

‘Good heavens, there’s no need for that.’

He returned to the garage and tore a piece from one of the yellowing newspapers. He wiped the points of the plug with it. ‘I shall have to heat it up,’ he said.

Timothy watched him as he went hurriedly towards the house. He hadn’t even listened about the curtains. For all the man cared, the competition mightn’t take place, nor the Easter Fête either. He began to follow the clergyman into the house, and then changed his mind. No point in taking trouble with him; no point in explaining that he’d walked all the way up to the blooming rectory to set his mind at rest. Stupid it was, saying you had to heat up a thing out of a lawnmower.

Old Ape ambled past him on the way to the back door for his dinner and his scraps, carrying a red plastic bucket. Timothy addressed him, gesturing, but the old man ignored him.

‘Hullo,’ a voice said, and then another voice said it.

He looked and saw the clergyman’s two children, known to him from past association.

‘Cheers,’ he said.

‘We got cake,’ Susannah said.

‘We ate lemon cake,’ Deborah said.

He nodded at them understandingly. Any cake they could get hold of he advised them to eat. He said they could have a picnic if they brought some cake out into the garden, but they didn’t seem to understand him.

‘We’re good girls,’ Susannah said.

‘You’re good definitely.’

‘We’re good girls,’ Deborah said.

He nodded at them again. He told them a story about a gooseberry in a lift and one about holes in Australia. ‘You’re out with a blonde,’ he said, ‘you see the wife coming?’

They knew it was all funny because of the funny voice he put on. He was doing it specially for them.

‘Ever read books?’ he said. ‘Tea for Two by Roland Butta?’

They laughed delightedly, clapping their hands together, and Timothy Gedge closed his eyes. The lights flickered in the darkness around him, and then the limelight blazed and he stood in its yellow flame. ‘Big hand, friends!’ cried Hughie Green, his famous eyebrow raised, his voice twanging pleasantly into his microphone. ‘Big hand for the boy with the funnies!’ All over Dynmouth the limelight blazed on Dynmouth’s television screens, and people watched, unable not to. ‘Big hand for the Timothy G Show !’ cried Hughie Green in Pretty Street and Once Hill and High Park Avenue. Like a bomb the show exploded, the funnies, the falsetto, Timothy himself. Clearly they heard him in the Cornerways flats and in Sea House and in the Dasses’ house and in the lounges of the Queen Victoria Hotel. From the blazing screen he smiled at the proprietor of the Artilleryman’s Friend and at his mother and Rose-Ann and his aunt the dressmaker and at his father, wherever he was. He smiled in the Youth Centre and in the house of Stringer the headmaster and in the house of Miss Wilkinson with her charrada. He smiled at Brehon O’Hennessy, wherever he was too, and in the houses of everyone in 3A. He thanked them all, leaning out of the blaze in order to be closer to them, saying they were great, saying they were lovely.

In the rectory garden the twins still laughed and clapped, more amused than ever because he was still standing there with his eyes closed, smiling at them. The most marvellous smile they’d ever seen, the biggest in the world.

Commander Abigail was not a heavy drinker, but after his gloomy morning walk he had felt the need of consolation and had found it in the Disraeli Lounge of the Queen Victoria Hotel. He had entered the lounge at twenty past two and had ordered a sandwich and a large measure of whisky, which he’d consumed quickly. He had attempted to obtain more whisky, but was informed that the bar was now closed until five-thirty. Unable to face his wife in the bungalow in High Park Avenue and fearful of meeting her in one of the shops if he hung about the town, he set off for another walk along the beach, striking out this time in the opposite direction from the one he’d taken that morning. With the passing of time, he began to think that he’d taken far too glum a view of the situation. His foremost maxim – of never admitting defeat, of sticking to your guns through thick and thin – came to his aid and offered the first shreds of comfort since the unpleasantness of the night before. At half past five he returned to the Disraeli Lounge and at ten to eight, his spirits further lightened by his intake of whisky, he entered the bungalow, whistling.

‘Where on earth have you been, Gordon?’ she demanded as soon as he appeared in the sitting-room. She was half-heartedly knitting, with the television on, the sound turned low.

‘Walking,’ he replied briskly. ‘I reckon I walked twenty miles today.’

‘Your dinner’ll be as dry as dust.’ She rose, sticking her knitting needles into a ball of blue wool. Laughter emerged softly from the television set as a man hit another man in the stomach. She could smell the whisky even though the length of the room was between them.

‘I want to talk to you,’ he said.

‘If you’re drunk, Gordon –’

‘I am not drunk.’

‘There’s been enough drunkenness in this house.’

‘Are you talking about young Gedge?’

‘I’ve been sitting here worried sick.’

‘About me, dear?’

‘I’ve been waiting for you for six hours. What on earth am I to think? I didn’t sleep a wink last night.’

‘Sit down, my dear.’

‘I want to leave Dynmouth, Gordon. I want to leave this bungalow and everything else. I thought I’d go mad with that woman this morning.’

‘What woman’s that, dear?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, what’s it matter what woman it is? You’ve never displayed the slightest interest in what I do. You’ve never asked me, not once, how anything has gone, or where I’ve been or whom I’ve seen.’

‘I’m sure I’ve asked about your Meals on Wheels, dear, I remember distinctly –’

‘You know perfectly well you haven’t. You’re incapable of taking an interest in me. You’re incapable of having a normal relationship with me. You marry me and you’re incapable of performing the sexual act.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Of course it’s true.’

‘You’re sixty-four, dear, I’m sixty-five. Elderly people don’t –’

‘We weren’t elderly in 1938.’

Her bluntness astounded him. Never in their whole married life had she spoken like that before. No matter how tedious she was in other ways, he had always assumed that it wasn’t in her nature to be coarse, and certainly she’d never displayed evidence of the inclination. Prim and proper had always been her way, and he’d appreciated her for it.

She returned to her chair and sat down. The two sharp points of red that had come into her cheeks the night before were there again. If he wanted food, she remarked unpleasantly, it was in the oven.

‘We had a nasty experience last night, Edith. We’re both upset.’

He crossed to the window table. The decanter, diminished by Timothy Gedge, still contained a few inches of amber liquid. He poured some for them both, and carried her glass to her.

She took it from him and sipped at the sweet sherry, reminded by its taste that he bought it specially because she didn’t like sweet sherry. It was at least fifteen years since he’d carried a glass across a room to her.

‘Young Gedge didn’t know what he was on about, Edith. I’ll tell you one thing, he’ll never enter Number Eleven High Park Avenue again.’

‘The drink you gave him brought the truth out, Gordon. He spoke nothing but the truth.’

‘Well, it’s not our business –’

‘It’s our business what he said about you.’

In the Disraeli Lounge he had planned what he’d say. He had prepared the sentences in his mind. He said:

‘I didn’t really notice that he said anything about me, dear.’

‘You know what he said, Gordon.’

‘As far as I could gather, what he was saying was some nonsense about the Easter Fête. Well, I dare say there’s no reason –’

‘Are you or are you not a homosexual, Gordon?’

He remained calm. Signals operated in his brain. Further prepared sentences came readily to his lips. He returned to the window table and poured himself the dregs of the sherry. He remained by the table, holding the edge of it with one hand because the table was shaking.

‘For young Gedge to say,’ he said quietly, ‘that he has seen a person watching boys playing rounders hardly makes that person a homosexual. I am a normal married man, Edith, as well you know.’

‘No, Gordon.’

‘I am not a passionate man, my dear. I prefer things in moderation.’

‘Thirty-six years’ abstinence is more than moderation, Gordon.’

Her voice was as soft and as deliberate as his. She shook her head and stared into the fire and then at the television screen. The programme had changed: a collie dog was now gambolling about, apparently seeking aid for a distressed shepherd.

‘I don’t always feel well,’ he said, which was another statement he had prepared. He paused, searching his mind for something else to say, something that might move the emphasis away from himself. He said:

‘I honestly didn’t know you still had interests like that, Edith.’

‘I cannot remain married to a man who is known to be a homosexual.’

He shivered. He recalled again the game of Find the Penny, and the face of the cub scout who liked to talk about his badges. Once in the Essoldo Cinema a lad had moved away when he’d done no more than offer him a piece of chocolate in the darkness. Once on the promenade a boy had laughed at him.

‘It’s not true what he said. I’ve no interest in cub scouts. I swear by almighty God, Edith.’

She looked away from him, not wishing to have to see him. She said there was no need to discuss it: she wanted to leave Dynmouth and to leave him, that was all.

‘I never did anything wrong, Edith.’

She didn’t speak. Still standing by the window, he began to weep.

His mother was out when he arrived back at Cornerways, and so was Rose-Ann. In the small grease-laden kitchen the dishes they’d eaten a meal off were in the sink. On the draining-board there was a piece of butter, half wrapped in its original paper, with scrapings from toast adhering to it. There were two tins, one that had contained peaches and the other half full of spaghetti. His mother would be at Thursday-evening Bingo, Rose-Ann out in Len’s car.

He knocked what remained of the spaghetti into a saucepan, and placed four slices of Mother’s Pride bread under the grill of the electric cooker. He hunted in a cupboard for another tin of peaches – or pineapple or pears, he didn’t mind. He knew he wouldn’t find any. He wouldn’t even find a tin of condensed milk, because his mother always opened tins on the day she bought them. In Mrs Abigail’s cupboards there were tins and jars of all sorts of things, fruit cocktail, chicken-and-ham paste, steak-and-kidney pie, Gentleman’s Relish. He poked through a jumble of dusters and Brasso, a broken electric iron, clothes pegs and a jelly mould. Finding nothing edible, he closed the cupboard door.

He went on thinking about Mrs Abigail. When he’d finished eating the spaghetti he’d call round and see her. He’d explain that in the kerfuffle last night he hadn’t been paid for the jobs he’d done. He’d say he was sorry for the kerfuffle, which was what she’d want to hear. He’d blame it all on the beer and the sherry, he’d say with a laugh she’d been right to tell him not to take any. Then he’d raise the subject of the dog’s-tooth suit.

The spaghetti sizzled in the saucepan, the toast flared beneath the grill. Unlike his mother and Rose-Ann he didn’t object to burnt toast, so he buttered it as it was, not pausing to toast the other side of it. He poked at the spaghetti with a knife, separating the congealed orange-and-white mess.

The Abigails were still in their sitting-room when the doorbell rang. The Commander, having ceased to weep, was sitting on the sofa. Mrs Abigail was in her armchair. The television set, still turned low, continued to perform.

On hearing the doorbell, the Commander’s reaction was affected by the events of the day and the matter they had just been so emotionally discussing: irrationally, he believed he was being visited by the police. Mrs Abigail, similarly affected, believed that what she’d been dreading all day had now come about: the parents of some child had arrived at the bungalow.

‘I’d better go,’ she said.

‘No, no. No, please –’

‘We can’t just sit here, Gordon.’

She rose slowly. She passed close to him as she crossed the room, averting her eyes. He had sobbed like a child. Tears had run on his cheeks as she had never seen tears coming from an adult man before. He had collapsed on to the sofa, holding his face with his hands, shrunken-looking. She hadn’t said anything. She’d even felt quite calm, only thinking that in the oven his dinner would be in cinders now.

In the hall she dreaded the advent of a parent less than she had dreaded it earlier. It was less terrible because her marriage was over. She had spoken and he, by his tears, had confessed: everything was different. She felt as though she had regained consciousness in a hospital bed after some physical calamity, that because of injury and loss she must now map out a new existence for herself.

‘Cheers,’ Timothy Gedge said when she opened the hall door.

The sight of him dismayed her. Some of the strength she had gained through coming to terms with the truth oozed out of her. She attempted to be brisk, but could not.

‘Well?’ she said, and then cleared her throat because her voice was croaking.

‘I come up to say I’m sorry, Mrs Abigail. If there was any inconvenience, due to the sherry and the beer.’

‘The Commander and I would rather you didn’t return here, Timothy.’

‘I was trying to play a joke on you, dressing up and that. I thought we were on for charades. I didn’t mean to cause a kerfuffle.’

‘It would be better if you went.’ She shook her head at him. She tried to smile, attempting to indicate that she knew it wasn’t his fault, that he hadn’t known what he was doing. ‘The Commander and I are upset, Timothy.’

She heard a sound in the hall behind her and then Gordon was pulling at the hall door, opening it wider and shouting. In a high voice he used expressions she’d never heard before. His face had reddened. His eyes had a wildness about them, as though he might attack the boy, who was looking at him with his mouth open.

‘The kind of person you are, Gedge,’ the Commander shouted, ‘you should be locked away. You’re a bloody young devil. You can’t mind your own business. Can you, Gedge?’ shrieked the Commander. ‘Can you mind your own business?’

‘I do the best I can, sir.’

‘You can’t tell the truth, Gedge. You’re trying on a blackmail attempt. You can be had up for blackmail, you know.’

‘We’ll keep the secret, Commander. No harm at all. Easy as skinning a cat, Commander.’

‘You deserve to be birched. You spy on innocent people. You tell nothing but lies.’

‘I wouldn’t ever tell a lie, sir.’

‘You bloody young pup!’ screamed the Commander.

There was silence then. A door opened in a bungalow across the avenue. A figure stood in the rectangle of light, attracted by the noise. The Commander was quietly weeping.

‘It’s all right, Gordon,’ she said in a flat, emotionless voice. ‘It’s all right, dear.’

She tried to close the door but he was grasping the edge of it, supporting himself against it. He moaned and sobbed, clinging to the door. He said he thought he would commit suicide.

The boy didn’t go away. She couldn’t understand why he didn’t turn and go.

‘Lies,’ her husband sobbed, in a voice that was now so soft it could scarcely be heard. Spittle was running down his chin and dripping on to his clothes. His fingers still gripped the edge of the door, his small body was pressed against it. He’d been shy and fair-haired the Sunday afternoon he’d asked her to marry him, without any confidence in those days. She’d wanted to mother him. She’d wanted to press him to her and to stroke the thin, vulnerable nape of his neck. He had asked her to marry him because he was ashamed of himself, because he wanted to hide. For thirty-six years she had been convenient for this purpose. ‘Lies,’ he whispered again. ‘All lies about me.’

‘I was wondering about the cash that was owing,’ the boy said. ‘I was passing and I looked in. I was wondering if you’d agree to loan me the suit.’ He smiled at her, and then he mentioned the money and the suit again.

She prised her husband’s fingers from the edge of the door and pulled him into the hall. He was weeping more noisily now. She banged the door, pushing at it with her foot because her hands were occupied. After a moment the bell rang again, but this time neither of them answered it.

He didn’t mind. It wasn’t polite of them not to answer the door, knowing that he was standing there, but it didn’t really matter. Tomorrow or the next day he’d call in again and she’d hand him over the money and the suit. Just like Dass would get hold of a pair of curtains.

In the small car-park of the Artilleryman’s Friend he waited by a Vauxhall that had been abandoned there ten months ago. The public house was closed. All the other cars had been driven away.

From the back-yard came the sound of bottles rattling as Mr Plant stacked crates on top of one another. He whistled as he did so.

Timothy crossed the car-park, glad that the publican was whistling since it suggested good humour. He passed through an opening in a wooden fence into the yard, which was lit only by the light from within the house. Mr Plant was in his shirtsleeves. His three-legged dog was eating a cork.

‘Cheers, Mr Plant,’ Timothy said.

Bent over a crate of bottles, with his back to Timothy, Mr Plant gave a startled grunt. He turned and peered into the shadows where Timothy was standing.

‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s me, sir. Young Timothy.’

Mr Plant took a bottle from the crate and advanced towards his visitor with it. He spoke in a low voice, saying a man could have a heart-attack, being crept up on like that.

‘Get off my property, son. I warned you this morning.’

‘I thought maybe you’d have time to think it over, Mr Plant.’

‘Keep your bloody voice down. Are you stupid or something? No one messes me, son. Clear off immediately.’

The voice of Mrs Plant called out from behind a lighted upstairs window, wanting to know whom her husband was talking to.

‘I don’t want to cause you any kerfuffle, Mr Plant. We’ll keep the secret –’

Mr Plant drove the base of the bottle at Timothy’s stomach, but Timothy side-stepped away from it.

‘Mrs Plant,’ Timothy said quite softly, and Mr Plant whispered that if he issued another sound he would thump him to a pulp. He drove the bottle in the direction of Timothy’s stomach again and he reached out with the fingers of his other hand in order to grasp the back of Timothy’s head.

‘Mrs Plant,’ Timothy said again, a little louder than before.

‘For God’s sake!’ whispered Mr Plant, and without further argument he agreed to convey the tin bath from Swines’ yard to the rectory garden on the morning of Easter Saturday. ‘Hop it,’ he whispered furiously. ‘Get to hell out of here now.’

As Timothy went he heard the voice of Mrs Plant again, demanding more sharply to know whom her husband was conversing with. The publican replied that he’d been talking to his dog.

All during supper, eating a pork chop and cauliflower and mashed potatoes, Stephen had wanted to be alone. He’d pushed forkfuls of food into his mouth, chewing it mechanically, drinking water to make swallowing easier. If he’d left it Mrs Blakey would have made a fuss, she’d have wanted to take his temperature, she’d have asked questions he couldn’t answer.

In bed it was easier to think. He’d never even seen the wedding-dress the boy had mentioned. His mother had shown him lots of things, photographs and even odds and ends she’d had as a child, but she’d never shown him her wedding-dress. It seemed strange that it should still be there, in a trunk. It seemed too strange to believe. Surely it was a lie that the boy had looked through a window of Primrose Cottage and seen it? Surely it was part of a make-believe, like imagining you were playing number three for Somerset? Timothy Gedge was a horrible sort of person, talking about honeymoons like that, saying Kate’s mother was peachy. Of course it was all lies.

He fell asleep, but hours later he woke up and felt again – as he’d felt for a moment in the hall when he’d arrived – that he shouldn’t be in this house. There was something wrong, there was something the matter. He felt it, not knowing what it was, like a feeling in a dream. He remembered now the faded green trunk the boy had mentioned. He could see it quite clearly when he thought about it. He could see his father lifting the lid and taking out the wedding-dress, not knowing what to do with it now that he was getting married again. In the warmth of his bed Stephen shuddered. When he tried to think he was unable to, as though he didn’t want to think, as though he was afraid to. ‘Mummy died,’ his father said again, and there seemed to be something wrong with the way he said it.

The Dynmouth Hards rode into the town that night and took away the telephone from the kiosk in Baptist Street. In the promenade bus-shelter they broke the window they hadn’t broken the last time they’d visited it. With their paint-guns they sprayed messages on the bonnets of four parked cars. They had hoped to find the Pakistani on his way back from night work in the steam laundry, but the Pakistani successfully avoided them. They swerved in front of Nurse Hackett’s Mini.

The men of Ring’s Amusements still worked in Sir Walter Raleigh Park, but the Dynmouth Hards knew better than to engage these men in any form of combat. They bought the last chips that were available in Phyl’s Phries and at one o’clock they drifted apart, not satisfied with their night out. Girls were dropped off at the ends of the roads where they lived, motor-cycles were pushed into front gardens and covered with P V C sheeting. The engines became quieter, purring quite ordinarily as they approached these resting places. In the yard of some lock-up garages one couple uncomfortably made love, their mock-leather garments still mostly in place. The girl, who happened never to enjoy this activity, ground her teeth together. ‘Lovely,’ she whispered through them, thankful when the youth had finished.

In the parents’ houses the Dynmouth Hards crept upstairs and into bedrooms in which other people slept, considerate because in their homes they were required to be. One of them dreamed that he was the mayor of a town in Australia. A girl who was a hairdresser gave Princess Elizabeth of Yugoslavia a blue rinse.

A better day today, Miss Lavant wrote in her diary, quite a bit of sunshine. Out shopping this morning. Mock’s have a new chap on the bacon counter. Apparently Mr Tares retired at the end of last week. Easter eggs in all the windows now, expensive. The nuns from the convent have bought a van. I was admiring it and one of them said it was a Fiat – Italian, which is suitable. While standing there I noticed Dr Greenslade drive by.

Miss Vine’s budgerigar Beano died that night, and so did old Miss Trimm, a favourite teacher once in Dynmouth Primary, whose declining years had tricked her into believing she’d mothered another son of God. She died in her sleep while dreaming that she was teaching geography, her mind quite lucid again. Beano died without dreaming about anything.