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human life, let alone that of the animal creation. George sat down at the table again, wise in his detachment. Perhaps he’d tell David about the cat some day. He’d already told him about the men.
     *
    That evening Ruth talked to George about David. He was so unlike Steven, much darker with a high forehead not unlike George’s, and eyes the same dark brown as Ruth’s.
    ‘I don’t think he’s happy at school. We used to know him so well and now he’s so quiet and withdrawn,’ she looked at a small photograph of him taken in London holding a toy steam-roller, and then back at George. ‘Perhaps he ought to have gone to a local school and come home at the week-ends. I thought he might have made a pianist but it wasn’t to be.’
    She sighed deeply and looked at George sitting opposite in his usual chair. He was working on a small tapestry made up of intricate if uninspired floral patterns. He had learned about needlework while he was at the Yorkshire nursing-home . Ruth smiled at him; his concentration was so endearing , he looked like he used to in the old days, slightly ridiculous in his seriousness, but that was part of his charm.
    ‘You’ve got awfully big hands for those tiny stitches,’ she said softly, half to herself.
    Just having George opposite was a kind of security. This evening she was particularly aware of his presence; his physical solidity, those large brown shoes, his woolly socks and broad rough flannel trousers.
    ‘I suppose he’ll have to go back to school, but really George I’m not happy. He doesn’t seem like other little boys now, does he?’
    ‘I wouldn’t say that, in a couple of years he’ll be out of all this. I read in some book recently that the early years of puberty are always the hardest.’
    He was so reassuring, she looked at him tenderly.
    ‘George, darling, do put that stuff away, I feel awfully like bed.’
    He looked up. She’d put on a new shade of lipstick and was wearing a dress he hadn’t seen for several years. They say things like that make all the difference. Perhaps Lifton hadn’t been a bad chooser really.
    He got up, putting his work on the sofa. Arm in arm they went upstairs. ‘Of course he’ll be all right,’ he said again.
    ‘Sometimes, darling, I wonder why we ever quarrel,’ she said, opening the bedroom door.
     *
    Two days later George was driving David between the high hedges towards Truro and his train.
    David sat looking out of the window at the rain as it slanted across the glass, gathering speed as drop joined drop.
    ‘It always seems to rain going back to school‚’ said David,breaking a long silence and pulling his macintosh around him more tightly.
    ‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it. Do you remember that awful day when Mummy and I came down to see you and that fool of a waiter gave us treacle tart instead of crème caramel? It was raining then,’ George ended weakly.
    The rain drummed down, almost making an unbroken sound on the roof. The windscreen wipers flicked back and forth indifferently.
    ‘Mine works better than yours,’ David said gloomily as they drove into the outskirts of Truro. The clouds were getting lower.
     *
    On the platfrom George said, ‘Do you want anything to read?’
    ‘No thank you.’
    ‘You’re sure.’
    ‘Yes.’
    David appeared lost in thought. This is hopeless, thought George. The train hadn’t arrived. The station smelt of disinfectant and bad milk; further up the platform, exposed to the weather, a couple of baskets of homing pigeons were getting soaked. George thought it better not to mention them.
    ‘Nothing bothering you, is there?’ George said breezily in a voice that produced the inevitable rejection.
    Funny really, he might be mine and I know nothing about him. George watched the train coming in; David didn’t lean out of the window in the train to wave good-bye, but found a seat and sat down.
    ‘Good luck,’ George yelled, but he couldn’t have heard, wedged in his steaming