It did not matter when Jamie and Katie were young. Fathers were not meant to play peepbo or put their hands up a sock and be Mr. Snakey-Snake (Jacob and Jean were inordinately fond of Mr. Snakey-Snake). You built a tree house, administered justice and took control of the kite in strong winds. And that was it.

“Does it have a jet engine or a peller?” asked Jacob.

“Does what have a jet engine or a propeller?” asked George.

“Does this plane have a jet engine or a peller?”

“Well, I think you’re going to have to tell me.”

“What do you think?” asked Jacob.

“I think it probably has a propeller.”

“No. It has a jet engine.”

They lay on their backs, side by side, looking at the ceiling. The fly had gone. There was a faint whiff of wet nappy. Somewhere between chicken soup and boiled milk.

“Are we going to do sleeping now?” asked Jacob.

“To be honest, Jacob, I think I’d prefer to keep talking.”

“Do you like talking, Grandpa?”

“Sometimes,” said George. “A lot of the time I like just being quiet. But at this precise moment I think I prefer talking.”

“What’s ‘this price moment’?”

“This precise moment is now. Just after lunch. In the afternoon. On a Sunday.”

“Are you funny?” asked Jacob.

“I think the general opinion would be that I’m not funny.”

The door opened again and Ray’s head appeared.

“Sorry, George. The nipper slipped the leash.”

“That’s OK. We were talking, weren’t we, Jacob.”

It felt good squaring up to his prospective son-in-law in one of Ray’s acknowledged areas of expertise.

But then it was not so good because Ray came into the room and sat on the end of the bed. On his and Jean’s bed.

“Seems like you blokes have got the right idea. Keeping your heads down.”

Ray lay on the bed.

And this was where the children problem overlapped with the Ray problem. You got the impression, sometimes, that parts of his brain were actually missing, that he could quite easily wander into the bathroom looking for a towel while you were on the toilet and have no clue as to why this might be inappropriate.

Jacob scrambled to his feet. “Let’s play ring-a-roses.”

And here it was. The test. You started a benign conversation about Heffalumps and before you knew it you had been shoehorned into some mortifying charade.

“OK,” said Ray getting onto his knees.

Sweet mother of God, thought George. Surely this wasn’t going to involve him?

“George?”

It was.

He got up onto his knees. Jacob took hold of his left hand and Ray took hold of his right. He hoped sincerely that Jean or Katie did not come into the room whilst this was taking place.

Jacob began bouncing up and down. “Ring-a-ring-a-roses…”

Ray joined in. “A pocket full of noses.”

George moved his shoulders up and down in time with the song.

“A-tishoo, a-tishoo, we all fall down.”

Jacob leapt into the air and fell shrieking onto the duvet with Ray. George, having given up hope of escaping with any dignity, slumped backward onto his pillow.

Jacob was laughing. Ray was laughing. And it occurred to George that if he could find the handle he might be able to open up the secret door and slide down that long chute all the way back to childhood and someone would take care of him and he would be safe.

“Again,” shouted Jacob, clambering to his feet. “Again, again, again, again, again…”

9

Jamie dunked his jacket onto the back of the chair, loosened his tie and, because no one was watching, did a little pirouette across the floor of the kitchen, ending up in front of the fridge. “Oh yes.”

He took out a bottle of Corona, closed the fridge, removed the Silk Cut from the drawer under the toaster, went through the French windows, sat on the bench and lit up.

It had been a good day. Contracts exchanged on the Miller house. And the Owens were going to bite. You could see it in their eyes. Well, you could see it in hers. And she quite clearly wore the trousers. Plus, Carl was still off work on account of his broken ankle, so Jamie had been dealing with the Cohens and very publicly not screwing it up. Unlike Carl.

The garden was looking great. No cat shit for starters. Maybe the lion dung pellets were working. It’d rained on the way home so the big pebbles were clean and dark and shiny. The chunky railway sleepers round the raised beds. Forsythia, bay, hosta. God knows why people planted grass. Wasn’t the point of having a garden to sit in it and do nothing?

He could hear the faint strains of reggae from a few gardens away. Loud enough for that lazy summer feeling. Not so loud you wanted them to turn it down.

He took a swig of lager.

A weird orange blister appeared on the gable of the house opposite. It turned slowly into a hot-air balloon and floated westward behind the branches of the cherry. A second balloon appeared, red this time, in the shape of a giant fire extinguisher. One by one the sky filled with balloons.

He blew out a little cloud of cigarette smoke and watched it drift sideways, keeping its shape until it spilled over the top of the barbecue.

Life was pretty much perfect. He had the house. He had the garden. Elderly lady in rude health to the left. Christians to the right (you could say what you liked about Christians, but they didn’t yodel during sex like the Germans who’d lived there before). Gym on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Tony round three nights a week.

He took another drag on the cigarette.

There was birdsong, too, along with the reggae. He’d have recognized the species at ten. He had no idea now. Not that it mattered. It was a good noise. Natural. Soothing.

Tony would be here in half an hour. They’d go down to the Carpenters’ for something to eat. Pick up a DVD from Blockbuster on the way back. If Tony wasn’t too knackered, he might get a shag.

In a nearby garden a child kicked a football against a wall. Doink. Doink. Doink.

Everything seemed suspended in some kind of balance. Obviously someone would come along and fuck it up, because that’s what other people did. But for now…

He felt a little peckish and wondered whether there were any Pringles left. He stood up and went inside.

10

Katie sometimes wondered whether Mum chose her opinions just to wind her up.

Clearly she’d rather the wedding didn’t go ahead. But if it did she wanted it to be a grand and public celebration. Katie pointed out that it was a second wedding. Mum said they didn’t want to seem cheap. Katie said that some restaurants were very expensive indeed. Her mother suggested a church blessing. Katie asked why. Her mother said it would be nice. Katie pointed out that nice was not the point of religion. Her mother said she should arrange to have a dress made. Katie said she didn’t do frocks. Her mother told her not to be ridiculous. And Katie began to realize they should have tied the knot in Las Vegas and told everyone afterward.

The following day Katie was watching Brookside on telly while Ray and Jacob made some kind of rudimentary shelter out of two dining chairs and the picnic blanket. She asked what they were doing and Jacob said they were making a tent. “For the wedding.” And Katie thought, “Sod it.” She was getting married to Ray. Her parents were going to have a party. They were simply going to do these things simultaneously.

She rang her mother and suggested a compromise. Her mother got the marquee and the flowers and the cake. Katie got the civil ceremony, no blessing and a dress off-the-peg.

The following Saturday Ray and Jacob went to get a new exhaust fitted while Katie met Mona in town to buy an outfit before Mum changed her mind.