Filing into the Drinking Room to give Patrick a good-night kiss on a Saturday, the children lined up in front of him.
‘My angel, thou art precious,’ he said. Va Va squirmed. Ben and Joe, the boys’ best friends, were staying and she was sure that their father didn’t talk like Patrick.
‘Talk properly, Daddy,’ Brodie whispered, and Patrick let his shoulders droop.
‘Dear God. Is there no freedom from policing in a man’s own home?’ He smiled an annoying soppy smile and stroked Brodie’s hair. ‘Brave child. Thou wilt break my heart.’ Brodie and Va Va sighed. It was useless. Patrick winked at Ben. ‘Tell me, young man, exactly how old are you now?’
‘Seven,’ said Ben.
‘Seven. It is my belief that all children should remain seven for ever and ever.’
‘What about me, Daddy?’ Va Va interrupted, anxious. ‘I’m eight.’
Patrick hugged her. ‘You, heart of my heart, are a sophisticate, and sophisticates cannot be controlled.’ Va Va was pleased by this. She savoured the word, whispering it as she went up to bed. It was a good word, it sounded like lace and scent and cigarettes. It sounded so feminine that Va Va fancied the word wore lipstick and had long curling red hair.
Patrick looked at Eleanor as she ushered the children out. ‘Dear heart, do not allow these bambini in here when I am in my cups.’