18

Roger dreamily returned from his reverie of Tim’s first seduction to middle-aged reality, feeling both a sense of sweet nostalgia and the inevitable erection. Timothy, in need of emotional comfort, tightened his arms around Roger. ‘Kiss me, Skipper.’

‘I like to do a lot more than kiss you,’ Roger mumbled, producing the usual shorthand of puffs and pants that preceded foreplay, but Timothy immediately tensed and jerked away.

‘How on earth can you think of that at a time like this?

‘What do you mean, “at a time like this”?’ Roger snapped. ‘I seem to remember our first time was exactly at a time like this. You were as randy as a jackrabbit. Couldn’t get your kecks off quick enough from what I remember, so don’t go all precious on me.’ But any thoughts of coitus were brutally interrupted by a hideous howling of Baskerville proportions emanating from the garden.

A wet and thoroughly miserable Finnegan was found hovering on the scullery doorstep, not quite knowing if he was welcome or not, sheepishly turning his head in a canine version of spinning the sympathy vote. ‘He missed his breakfast,’ Roger said. ‘He’s starving.’

‘Is he really?’ replied Timothy. ‘Well seeing as I’m not au fait with his dietary requirements, what might he like to eat?’

‘He normally has a tin of tripe dog food and a bowl of sweet tea.’

‘Well, surprise, surprise! We’re clean out of tinned tripe. It wouldn’t have occurred to you to bring some with you, I suppose? He’ll have to have some Weetabix, and from what I remember there’s only a couple left. We haven’t got any milk either, until Cora gets back, so he’ll have to have them soaked in water. I think someone’s going to have to go to Sainsbury’s and it isn’t going to be me!’

Donning the mantle of the mood, Roger sat silently on a kitchen chair with unaccustomed anxiety. Everyone who knew Timothy had to admit he was intrinsically sweet-natured and easy-going. Any sign of aggression, or even mild irritation, that could (in the loosest terms) be called attitude was non-existent. Roger could only watch with bewilderment as he banged about in full tantrum, angrily preparing a mush of cereal in a Coalport soup tureen. When he cloncked it down carelessly on the kitchen floor Finnegan dived in with gusto, slurping like a sump pump.

‘He needs it on a stool or he might get bloat,’ Roger said carefully.

‘What’s bloat?’

‘His stomach fills with air and he blows up. It’s life threatening.’

‘Good. I hope he explodes! I hate him.’

‘You really don’t like him, do you?’

‘Oh, well done, Einstein!’

‘Well, I don’t like that revolting cat, if you must know. I never know if she’s coming towards me or going away.’

‘You’re a pig! What a cruel and heartless thing to say. I adore Anthea. What’s the matter with you? Why are you being so vile to me?’

Timothy, although parading aggression, didn’t feel aggressive. He felt tired and miserable, and above all he wanted his mother. Oh, how desperately he wanted his mother. He wanted to believe that she wasn’t dead – just away on her usual monthly trip to Waldringhythe. That she’d be home soon, bustling in with smiles and gasping for a G and T.

He moved to sweep out of the room, but Roger barred his way. ‘Bloody hell, Tim. Calm down. If you feel that bad I’ll take him home. Sally was expecting to keep him anyway, so no bones broken. I’ve got to pop back for some clothes soon, so I’ll drop him off. Then I’ll go to Sainsbury’s and stock up on all our favourites. Come on, honey pie. All better now?’

‘No. I feel weird.’

Timothy’s weird feeling wasn’t just attention seeking. Something really had started to change in the way the world appeared. His sight was distorted, his hand-eye coordination wasn’t quite right and something dream-like was happening in his head. A collection of cubes and triangles swung like mobiles and turned into a burst of rainbow colours. He began to hear a loud hum, like the chorus from Madam Butterfly, and, looking up to the ceiling, he was sure he saw the fluttering shadow of wings.

‘I need some fresh air,’ he said. ‘That dog stinks like a tramp’s pants.’ He strode forcefully into the garden and slumped against the trunk of the old walnut tree.

Roger followed. ‘Look, I’m sorry I insulted Anthea. It was only a knee-jerk. Why the hell are we quarrelling? This is stupid.’

Timothy looked up to the sky, seeming not to hear. ‘Rog, she was such a perfect person, but she didn’t confess or receive the sacrament. It has to be God’s choice to take her soul to heaven, or she’ll be left in Purgatory.’

Roger lay both hands on Timothy’s shoulders. ‘What is all this God stuff about? You’ve got to cut it out. Get grounded. It was your mother’s choice to reject it all. Just leave her be.’

‘But I can’t just trust to luck, can I? Will you pray with me?’