“That’s your problem, Dan. You’re always joking. Maybe you should think about trying to take life a little more seriously and get yourself a bloody job!”

She grabbed her raincoat from the back of the chair and stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. In the silence that ensued, Biggles crept out of hiding from his basket in the conservatory and came over and laid his head on Dan’s knee.

Dan gave the dog a solid pat on his large black-and-white head. “Biggles, my boy, your timing seems to be a hell of a lot better than mine.”

9

Dan sat in the ageing Saab outside St. Bartholomew’s Church in Battersea, killing time until his mother appeared by attempting to fit the convertible hood flush with the top of the windscreen so that they wouldn’t have to make the journey back to Clapham with frozen scalps. He had never really been aware of the draught himself until the day before when he had whisked Jackie up to Waterloo Station and had dropped her outside the Eurostar terminal with her woollen scarf tied Russian-peasant-style around her head. He had secretly hoped that wonderboy Stephen could have seen her like that, but as he watched her walk into the building, she had pulled off the scarf, given her head a quick shake, and once more looked immaculate. Well, from the rear view at any rate. She hadn’t actually bothered to turn round, not even for a final goodbye.

Two young children, clutching crayoned drawings in their hands, came running out through the doors of the church, heralding the end of the service. Dan watched as they hid behind one of the stone pillars, whispering excitedly to one another, and then jumped out when their parents appeared. Neither mother nor father showed any reaction to their children’s sudden appearance. Go on, Dan thought, do something! At least clutch a hand to the heart or stagger back in feigned shock. But no, they just pushed their children on in front of them and headed up the street in animated and godly conversation with each other.