His plate was put in front of him. He felt for his cutlery.

“How many are there?”

“Don’t poke them.”

“Shall I cut here?”

“That’s the bone.”

He sawed, his knife got stuck; he pushed and it shot out, sending a potato onto the tablecloth.

“Wait.” She put her soup aside and picked up his plate. “There.” She passed it back to him.

“Have you cut it up into pieces?” He swapped his fork to his other hand.

“Try to use both hands.”

The waitress came over. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Another napkin,” said Enid. Hers was messed with lamb chop, her fingers sticky. She tried her soup. A thick mushroom broth.

Fagus chewed slowly. “Can I pick up the bones?”

“I should think not.” It was hard to eat while watching him, his elbows and arms, the edge of the plate, gravy and spuds, his glass of water too near.

“They won’t let me use my hands at school either.” He felt for his glass. His fingernails knocked against it.

“Put your knife down while you drink.” She held it steady until he’d grasped it.

She tried her soup again. Revolting. She must breathe. “And have you seen Papa?”

“Oh yes,” said Fagus. “He comes to see me quite a lot. At least once a term. We normally have tea in the library. He brought a friend with him last time. She gave me a whole bag of sweets.”

He lowered the glass, but it was too near the plate. She thought he was going to let go of it. “Fagus,” she cried.

He jumped. Water splashed onto his hand. He swung his arm one way and knocked the vase of flowers; then the other, and the bottom of his glass caught the edge of his plate and went flying over it, water everywhere. The crash made everyone look. Enid leapt up – Fagus felt for the edge of the table but found his plate instead, too late to not pull, and his lunch, his chops and gravy and boiled potatoes, went piling off the table onto his lap.

Waitresses came running with cloths.

“I’m sorry, Mamma.”

“No, no.” She couldn’t stop shaking.

They mopped him up, and Enid wiped his face.

“Mary usually helps me.”

“She sounds nice.”

“She’s terribly nice, Mamma.” He was covered in gravy stains and damp. “Are we going?”

She held his hand. “I’ll come and see you again very soon.”

“But we haven’t had pudding.”

“We’ll have pudding next time.”

“Papa usually comes at Christmas too.”

“With his lady friend?” said Enid. They reached the doors. Someone had gone to get them a cab.

“He usually brings me something.”

“And Aunt Joan?” It had just come out, falling like the water and the plate.

“Oh yes, Dodo comes all the time, too. During the holidays, mostly.”

“So you’ve lots of visitors.” It was a statement, not a question.