Dave said: “Three hundred and sixty.”

“Not a random number, presumably.”

“If we don’t all get killed by bombs tonight, I’m going to sell them at the demonstration tomorrow for sixpence each. Three hundred and sixty sixpences are one hundred and eighty shillings, or nine pounds, which is the price of the guitar amplifier I want to buy.”

Dave had a nose for business. Jasper remembered his soft drinks stall at the school play, staffed by teenage boys who worked at top speed because Dave was paying them a commission. But Dave did badly at his lessons, coming at or near the bottom of the class in all academic subjects. It drove his father wild, for in other respects Dave seemed bright. Lloyd accused Dave of laziness, but Jasper thought it was more complicated. Dave had trouble making sense of anything written down. His own writing was dire, full of spelling mistakes and even reversed letters. It reminded Jasper of his best friend at school, who had been incapable of singing the school song, and found it hard to hear the difference between his one-note drone and the melody the other boys were singing. Likewise, Dave had to make an effort of concentration to see the difference between the letters d and b. He longed to fulfill the expectations of his high-achieving parents, but always fell short.

As he stapled his sixpenny flags together, his mind evidently wandered, for apropos of nothing he said: “Your mother and mine can’t have had much in common when they first met.”

“No,” said Jasper. “Daisy Peshkov was the child of a Russian-American gangster. Eva Rothmann was a doctor’s daughter from a middle-class Jewish family in Berlin, sent to America to escape the Nazis. Your mother took my mother in.”

Evie, who had been named after Eva, said: “My mother just has a big heart.”

Jasper said half to himself: “I wish someone would send me to America.”

“Why don’t you just go?” said Evie. “You could tell them to leave the Cuban people alone.”

Jasper did not care a damn about the Cubans. “I can’t afford it.” Even living rent-free he was too broke to buy a ticket to the United States.

At that moment the woman with the big heart walked into the room. Daisy Williams at forty-six was still attractive, with big blue eyes and fair curls: when she was young she must have been irresistible, Jasper thought. Tonight she was dressed modestly, in a midblue skirt with matching jacket and no jewelry; hiding her wealth, Jasper thought sardonically, the better to play the part of a politician’s wife. Her figure was still trim, though not as slim as it used to be. Picturing her naked, he thought she would be better in bed than her daughter, Evie. Daisy would be like Beep, ready for anything. He was surprised to catch himself in such a fantasy about someone his mother’s age. It was a good thing women could not read men’s minds.