‘You didn’t meet him on a day trip to Portsmouth, then?’ I asked slowly, wondering whether I really wanted to hear what I was hearing.

‘Not at all. It was in another place entirely.’

‘SO-3?’

‘You’d never believe me if I told you, so I’m not going to. But the point is, I was very happy to have children when the time came. Despite all your ceaseless bickering when you were kids, and teenage grumpiness, it’s been a wonderful adventure. Losing Anton was a storm cloud for a bit but on balance it’s been good—better than SpecOps any day.’

She paused.

‘But I was the same as you, worrying about not being ready, about being a bad mother. How did I do?’

She stared at me and smiled kindly.

‘You did good, Mum.’

I hugged her tightly.

‘I’ll do what I can to help, sweetness, but strictly no nappies or potty-training and Tuesday and Thursday evenings are right out.’

‘SO-3?’

‘No,’ she replied, ‘bridge and skittles.’

She handed me a handkerchief and I dabbed at my eyes.

‘You’ll be fine, sweetness.’

I thanked her and she bustled off, muttering something about having a million mouths to feed I watched her leave, smiling to myself. I thought I knew my mother but I didn’t. Children rarely understand their parents at all.

‘Thursday!’ said Joffy as I reappeared from the vestry. ‘What use are you if you don’t mingle? Will you take that wealthy Flex fellow to meet Zorf, the Neanderthal artist? I’d be ever so grateful. Oh my goodness!’ he muttered, staring at the church door. ‘It’s Aubrey Jambe!’

And so it was. Mr Jambe, Swindon’s croquet captain, despite his recent indiscretion with the chimp, was still attending functions as though nothing had happened.

‘I wonder if he’s brought the chimp,’ I said, but Joffy flashed me an angry look and rushed off to press flesh.

I found Cordelia and Mr Flex discussing the merits of a minimalist painting by Welsh artist Tegwyn Wedimedr that was so minimalist it wasn’t there at all. They were staring at a blank wall with a picture hook on it.

‘What does it say to you, Harry?’

‘It says… nothing, Cords—but in a very different way. How much is it?’

Cordelia bent forward to look at the price tag.

‘It’s called Beyond Satire and it’s twelve hundred pounds; quite a snip. Hello, Thursday! Changed your mind about the book-flick?’

‘Nope. Have you met Zorf, the Neanderthal artist?’

I guided them over to where Zorf was exhibiting. Some of his friends were with him, one of whom I recognised.

‘Miss Next!’ said Stiggins as I approached. ‘We would like to introduce our friend Zorf.’ The slightly younger Neanderthal shook my hand as I explained who Harry and Cordelia were.

‘This is a very interesting painting, Mr Zorf,’ said Harry, staring at a mass of green, yellow and orange paint on a large six-foot-square canvas ‘What does it represent?’

‘Is not obvious?’ replied the Neanderthal.

‘Of course!’ said Harry, turning his head this way and that. ‘It’s daffodils, isn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘A sunset?’

‘No.’

‘Field of barley?’

‘No.’

‘I give up.’

‘Closest yet, Mr Flex. If you have to ask, then you never understand. To Neanderthal, sunset is only finish-day. Van Gogh’s Green Rye is merely poor depiction of a field. The only sapien painters we truly understand are Pollock or Kandinsky, they speak our language. Our paintings are not for you.’

I looked at the small gathering of Neanderthals who were staring at Zorf’s abstract paintings with emotion-filled wonderment, tears in their eyes. But Harry, a bullshitter to the end, had not yet given up hope.

‘Can I have another guess?’ he asked Zorf, who nodded.

He stared at the canvas and screwed up his eyes.

‘It’s a—’

‘Hope,’ said a voice close by. ‘It’s hope. Hope for the future of the Neanderthal. It is the fervent wish—for children.’

Zorf and all the other Neanderthals turned to stare at the speaker. It was Granny Next.

‘Exactly what I was about to say,’ said Flex, fooling no one but himself.

‘The esteemed lady shows understanding beyond her species,’ said Zorf, making a small grunting noise that I took to be laughter. ‘Would lady-sapien like to add to our painting?’

This was indeed an honour. Granny Next stepped forward, took the proffered brush from Zorf, mixed a subtle shade of turquoise and made a few fine brush strokes to the left of centre. There was a gasp from the Neanderthals and the women in the group hastily placed veils over their faces while the men—including Zorf—raised their heads and stared at the ceiling, humming quietly. Gran did likewise. Flex, Cordelia and I looked at one another, confused and ignorant of Neanderthal customs. After a while the staring and humming stopped, the women raised their veils and they all ambled slowly over to Gran and smelled her clothes and touched her face with large yet gentle hands. Within a few minutes it was all over; the Neanderthals returned to their seats and were staring at Zorf’s paintings again.

‘Hello, young Thursday!’ said Gran, turning to me. ‘Let’s find somewhere quiet to have a chat!’

We walked off towards the church organ and sat on a pair of hard plastic chairs.

‘What did you paint on his picture?’ I asked her, and Gran smiled her sweetest smile.

‘Something a bit controversial,’ she confided, ‘yet supportive. I have worked with Neanderthals in the past and know many of their ways and customs. How’s hubby?’

‘Still eradicated,’ I said glumly.

‘Never mind,’ said Gran seriously, touching my chin so I would look into her eyes. ‘Always there is hope—you’ll find, as I did, that it’s really very funny the way things turn out.’

‘I know. Thanks, Gran.’

‘Your mother will be a tower of strength—never be in any doubt of that.’

‘She’s here if you want to see her.’

‘No, no,’ said Gran, slightly hurriedly. ‘I expect she’s a little busy. While we’re here,’ she went on, changing the subject without drawing breath, ‘can you think of any books that might be included in the “ten most boring classics”? I’m about ready to go.’

‘Gran!’

‘Indulge me, young Thursday!’

I sighed.

‘How about Paradise Lost?’

Gran let out a loud groan.

‘Awful! I could hardly walk for a week afterwards—it’s enough to put anyone off religion for good!’

‘Ivanhoe?’

‘Pretty dull but redeemable in places—it isn’t in the top ten, I think.’

‘Moby Dick?’

‘Excitement and action interspersed with mind-numbing dullness. Read it twice.’

‘A la recherche du temps perdu?’

‘English or French, its sheer tediousness is undimimshed.’

‘Pamela?’

‘Ah! Now you’re talking. Struggled through that when a teenager. It might have had resonance in 1741 but today the only resonance it possesses is the snores that emanate from those deluded enough to attempt it.’

‘How about The Pilgrim’s Progress?’

But Gran’s attention had wandered.

‘You have visitors, my dear. Look over there past the stuffed squid inside the piano and just next to the Fiat 500 carved from frozen toothpaste.’

There were two SpecOps agents in dark suits but they were not Dedmen and Walken. It looked as though SO-5 had suffered another mishap. I asked Gran whether she would be all right on her own and walked across to meet them. I found them looking dubiously at a flattened tuba on the ground entitled The indivisible thriceness of death.

‘What do you think?’ I asked them.

‘I don’t know,’ began the first agent nervously. ‘I’m… I’m… not really up on art.’

‘Even if you were it wouldn’t help here,’ I replied drily. ‘SpecOps 5?’

‘Yes, how did—’

He checked himself quickly and rummaged for a pair of dark glasses.