poking it, till I used his impatience as a cover for my own. ‘If you insist. We’ll just take a peek. I’d like to see what colour it is.’
We peeled off the rustling recrap that encased it. I halfexpected it to come out moving, but when I first glimpsed a small patch of its side, it looked like grey plastic, anonymous, dead. I went on unpeeling. Luke was mad with glee. Two protuberances appeared from the base that reminded me of the feet of a dodo, leathery, crudely detailed things, quite large compared to what the body must be. One of the cats was watching us, but it ignored the robot and jumped inside the packing, waving its tail disdainfully, or perhaps the white plume was a flag of surrender.
Luke tugged at my arm. ‘Daddy, Daddy.’
‘What? I’m trying to get this stuff off.’
‘Is it a girl or a boy?’
‘God, I don’t know. What do you want it to be?’
‘I want it to be like me.’
I nodded, understandingly. ‘Okay, it’s a boy. It can be – a sort of brother.’ It still hurt me that he didn’t have a brother.
‘No,’ he said, indignant. ‘I want a girl.’
‘No, you don’t,’ I said, not entirely listening. The logic of children is often surreal. ‘Oh, look, I say …’
For the head, when I got to it, was really tremendous. Now we saw our robot whole.
It sat there, looking remarkably composed, a robust, short creature around a metre tall, a little less, perhaps, than a threeyearold child. Its head was huge, childlike or birdlike, a baby bird’s head in terms of its proportions, its most notable feature two big lidded ‘eyes’, which were currently turned down on the ground, giving a winning effect of shy good manners. It had stumpy legs and big flat feet; its arms had a softer, velvety texture. There were numerous panels, buttons, indentations, both front and back, suggesting many talents.
‘Hallo,’ I said. I didn’t mean to be facetious. I liked it at once, and wanted to greet it.
‘Dad, Dad, why isn’t it moving?’ Luke was jumping up and down on the spot. The cats were weaving around it, more confident now, tapping it gently with their paws, trying to see if it were dead.
‘I don’t know how we switch it on,’ I said.
But I soon found out; it was delightfully simple. You pressed a little panel marked ‘Hallo’.
‘Luke, do you want to switch him on?’
‘Or her,’ he said. He thought about it. I think he was suddenly afraid. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to wait for Mummy.’
The miracle was, Sarah liked it too. It appealed to her love of novelty – it tickled her sense of humour, too, the way they had made it like a cartoon character, its cheeky roundness, its big brainy head. ‘It’s almost too sweet to be useful,’ she said. ‘Look at those lovely long xylon lashes. So
cute
…’
‘Luke, switch it on, now Mummy’s here.’
Very tentatively, Luke pressed the panel, then stepped away smartly, and we all waited. Nothing happened. He tried again. ‘I think you should be firmer with it,’ Sarah said.
‘You’d know, dear,’ I countered, but she didn’t hear me. She stretched out her small strong hand, and pressed, and a moment later the Dove quivered, whirred, and set off across the floor with the bandy gait of a drunken toddler, pausing minutely every now and then and whirring more loudly, as if thinking. We watched it, all three of us, as proud as parents. It worked! It walked! We stood and adored.
Then it reached a carpet, and the world went mad. There was a noise like a million electronic saws and the carpet turned into a cross between a flying terrier and a boa constrictor, writhing and hissing like a white tornado, while the Dove stood and fought it, rocking, grinding. Both cats fled yowling into the kitchen.
‘Turn it off,’ shrieked Sarah above the tumult.
I did. We looked at each other, shaken, but Luke was grinning and shaking his head.
‘It’s not broken,’ he insisted, happily. ‘It’s cleaned the floor wherever
We peeled off the rustling recrap that encased it. I halfexpected it to come out moving, but when I first glimpsed a small patch of its side, it looked like grey plastic, anonymous, dead. I went on unpeeling. Luke was mad with glee. Two protuberances appeared from the base that reminded me of the feet of a dodo, leathery, crudely detailed things, quite large compared to what the body must be. One of the cats was watching us, but it ignored the robot and jumped inside the packing, waving its tail disdainfully, or perhaps the white plume was a flag of surrender.
Luke tugged at my arm. ‘Daddy, Daddy.’
‘What? I’m trying to get this stuff off.’
‘Is it a girl or a boy?’
‘God, I don’t know. What do you want it to be?’
‘I want it to be like me.’
I nodded, understandingly. ‘Okay, it’s a boy. It can be – a sort of brother.’ It still hurt me that he didn’t have a brother.
‘No,’ he said, indignant. ‘I want a girl.’
‘No, you don’t,’ I said, not entirely listening. The logic of children is often surreal. ‘Oh, look, I say …’
For the head, when I got to it, was really tremendous. Now we saw our robot whole.
It sat there, looking remarkably composed, a robust, short creature around a metre tall, a little less, perhaps, than a threeyearold child. Its head was huge, childlike or birdlike, a baby bird’s head in terms of its proportions, its most notable feature two big lidded ‘eyes’, which were currently turned down on the ground, giving a winning effect of shy good manners. It had stumpy legs and big flat feet; its arms had a softer, velvety texture. There were numerous panels, buttons, indentations, both front and back, suggesting many talents.
‘Hallo,’ I said. I didn’t mean to be facetious. I liked it at once, and wanted to greet it.
‘Dad, Dad, why isn’t it moving?’ Luke was jumping up and down on the spot. The cats were weaving around it, more confident now, tapping it gently with their paws, trying to see if it were dead.
‘I don’t know how we switch it on,’ I said.
But I soon found out; it was delightfully simple. You pressed a little panel marked ‘Hallo’.
‘Luke, do you want to switch him on?’
‘Or her,’ he said. He thought about it. I think he was suddenly afraid. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to wait for Mummy.’
The miracle was, Sarah liked it too. It appealed to her love of novelty – it tickled her sense of humour, too, the way they had made it like a cartoon character, its cheeky roundness, its big brainy head. ‘It’s almost too sweet to be useful,’ she said. ‘Look at those lovely long xylon lashes. So
cute
…’
‘Luke, switch it on, now Mummy’s here.’
Very tentatively, Luke pressed the panel, then stepped away smartly, and we all waited. Nothing happened. He tried again. ‘I think you should be firmer with it,’ Sarah said.
‘You’d know, dear,’ I countered, but she didn’t hear me. She stretched out her small strong hand, and pressed, and a moment later the Dove quivered, whirred, and set off across the floor with the bandy gait of a drunken toddler, pausing minutely every now and then and whirring more loudly, as if thinking. We watched it, all three of us, as proud as parents. It worked! It walked! We stood and adored.
Then it reached a carpet, and the world went mad. There was a noise like a million electronic saws and the carpet turned into a cross between a flying terrier and a boa constrictor, writhing and hissing like a white tornado, while the Dove stood and fought it, rocking, grinding. Both cats fled yowling into the kitchen.
‘Turn it off,’ shrieked Sarah above the tumult.
I did. We looked at each other, shaken, but Luke was grinning and shaking his head.
‘It’s not broken,’ he insisted, happily. ‘It’s cleaned the floor wherever
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