passenger, and when she was gone, it brought him additional pain, an actual sharp physical pain in the region where his heart was, to get into the driving seat with no Vivien beside him. His only purpose in keeping the car had become to drive himself to Lewes to see Zoe. The car was parked in the street on the residents’ parking, and to keep the battery from getting flat he had to drive it round West Hampstead a couple of times a week: down Fortune Green Road, around those streets named after ancient Greek heroes, Agamemnon, Achilles, et cetera, sometimes down to Shoot-Up Hill and back along Iverson. The battery still occasionally went flat, he had to call the RAC, and they did come at first as part of the deal, but then said if this went on, they were afraid they would have to charge him over the odds. So he gave up the car and it was a considerable relief.
Aunt Zoe, who wasn’t his aunt and whom he had never called aunt, lived in Lewes. Now he went down by train and enjoyed the Sussex scenery, as he had never been able to before. Visiting Zoe had always been a pleasure and not a duty, and it was even betterwhen that pleasure was reached in a train. Zoe had put an immediate end to the horrors of his childhood from the first moment he saw her. His mother was gone, departed sometime in the summer of the qanats; dead, his father told him, ill, in hospital, then again dead. She hadn’t shown Michael much love but she was his mother, she was all the mother he had. He lived in the house called Anderby with his father, who spoke to him when he had to issue some instruction or tell him off and put food in front of him, mostly fish-paste sandwiches and Spam. Then, suddenly, his mother wasn’t dead but had gone away and left them. Michael remembered the utter bewilderment he had felt. His father had found out about the tunnels, come to the entrance, and shouted at them all to go home, never to go there again. He took Michael home with him and thus took from him all his companions. Michael was told he must go away and live with his father’s cousin. She had a nice house and a new husband and Michael must learn to like her.
“I never did, but you’re not much like me so maybe you will. Like it or lump it. She says she’s met you once or twice. I don’t remember but perhaps you do. She’s no kids of her own and can’t have any and she wants you and that’s the main thing. You’ll go down to Lewes on Thursday in the train.”
John Winwood, whom no one called Woody anymore, went upstairs and started singing “Abide with Me.” Michael didn’t much trust his father, he had no reason to, but he did think his father meant to come with him in the train. But his father had no intention of doing that. He packed a bag for Michael, this time singing “O God, Our Help in Ages Past” while he did so, stuffing the bag with odd socks and clothes Michael had grown out of. His father came to the station with him, saw him on the train, and said he’d talked to the guard and “given him a tip” to see “the boy didn’t get into mischief.” Then Michael’s father went away without waiting for the train to depart, saying as he left that he’d forgotten to bring the sandwiches he had packed up for Michael. That train journey, rain streaming down thecarriage windows, cold weather for October, was the worst morning of Michael’s life, and he had known some bad mornings. The feeling he had was a mixture of panic and despair. He had a ticket but no money. He needed the lavatory but had no idea where to find it—if it existed on a train. A lady he would and did remember all his life—plump, kindly, with a little dog on her lap—asked him if he was all right and was anyone with him? He brought himself with dreadful shame to ask where the lavatory was, and she offered to show him, carrying the Yorkshire terrier with her. After that, relieved and comforted, he stroked the little dog and talked to it all the way to Lewes.
She
Aunt Zoe, who wasn’t his aunt and whom he had never called aunt, lived in Lewes. Now he went down by train and enjoyed the Sussex scenery, as he had never been able to before. Visiting Zoe had always been a pleasure and not a duty, and it was even betterwhen that pleasure was reached in a train. Zoe had put an immediate end to the horrors of his childhood from the first moment he saw her. His mother was gone, departed sometime in the summer of the qanats; dead, his father told him, ill, in hospital, then again dead. She hadn’t shown Michael much love but she was his mother, she was all the mother he had. He lived in the house called Anderby with his father, who spoke to him when he had to issue some instruction or tell him off and put food in front of him, mostly fish-paste sandwiches and Spam. Then, suddenly, his mother wasn’t dead but had gone away and left them. Michael remembered the utter bewilderment he had felt. His father had found out about the tunnels, come to the entrance, and shouted at them all to go home, never to go there again. He took Michael home with him and thus took from him all his companions. Michael was told he must go away and live with his father’s cousin. She had a nice house and a new husband and Michael must learn to like her.
“I never did, but you’re not much like me so maybe you will. Like it or lump it. She says she’s met you once or twice. I don’t remember but perhaps you do. She’s no kids of her own and can’t have any and she wants you and that’s the main thing. You’ll go down to Lewes on Thursday in the train.”
John Winwood, whom no one called Woody anymore, went upstairs and started singing “Abide with Me.” Michael didn’t much trust his father, he had no reason to, but he did think his father meant to come with him in the train. But his father had no intention of doing that. He packed a bag for Michael, this time singing “O God, Our Help in Ages Past” while he did so, stuffing the bag with odd socks and clothes Michael had grown out of. His father came to the station with him, saw him on the train, and said he’d talked to the guard and “given him a tip” to see “the boy didn’t get into mischief.” Then Michael’s father went away without waiting for the train to depart, saying as he left that he’d forgotten to bring the sandwiches he had packed up for Michael. That train journey, rain streaming down thecarriage windows, cold weather for October, was the worst morning of Michael’s life, and he had known some bad mornings. The feeling he had was a mixture of panic and despair. He had a ticket but no money. He needed the lavatory but had no idea where to find it—if it existed on a train. A lady he would and did remember all his life—plump, kindly, with a little dog on her lap—asked him if he was all right and was anyone with him? He brought himself with dreadful shame to ask where the lavatory was, and she offered to show him, carrying the Yorkshire terrier with her. After that, relieved and comforted, he stroked the little dog and talked to it all the way to Lewes.
She
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