He had none of his own things with him, apart from a few changes of clothing. Some of his stuff was with his father in the caravan park and the rest was packed away in storage boxes while his mother was making arrangements to move from the flat. Starting from next month she had a new job as a live-in housekeeper, with accommodation provided for the two of them—herself and Seymour. It was a temporary job, and after that they’d have to wait and see what turned up. Everything was always temporary, always in a state of flux. He supposed dully that one day the tiresome see-saw of his life would stabilise, and he’d know for certain just where he was supposed to live, and with whom. Meanwhile he’d been parked with crabby old Thelma, and had to make the best of it. As she’d said, she wasn’t even a proper relation, just someone who’d once formed a casual and tenuous acquaintance with his mother through some church group. His mother, he realised with shame, was adept at imposing upon people and making them feel sorry for her. In reality, she didn’t need that sort of help from anyone. It was all a pose, the act she put on. Behind her disguise of pastel-framed glasses, floral dresses and thin martyred face, she was a born survivor, as tough as any street fighter.