One of the lads had brought a ball and started to kick it around; soon there were over a dozen chasing the leather. Howard decided that would be more fun than trying to turn Beryl’s mood. He played for half an hour, worked up a sweat and a thirst, then chose to join his mother, who sat alone on the picnic rug watching the young people play and quarrel. Laugh and lose.

He lay on his back and pulled his cap down over his eyes. It was hot enough. He wanted to take off his shirt but he knew his mother wouldn’t like it. She believed that only those who didn’t know better did so.

‘Is it serious between you and Beryl, Howie? Ought I to be trimming my hat?’

‘No, Mam, I’d have come here without her, but she made it difficult to do so.’ She clung like a leech. She was so thin, he had this irrational fear that if he left her alone she might blow over, snap. He’d brought her along because she’d have been hurt if he’d not allowed it. He didn’t want to hurt her; he pitied her even when she tried to act tough or indifferent, or when she tried to provoke him. Especially then. Women’s attempts to capture him slipped off him; men’s attempts to buddy up or imitate seemed absurd. He rarely had to try.

‘If you are not interested in her then you shouldn’t lead her on.’ His mother was never one for mincing her words.

He blushed, despite his age and height. He wished his mother wouldn’t talk about such things with him. He was always left feeling like a cad, even when he was behaving with the utmost sincerity. It was as though she knew about the bony, uncomfortable sex he and Beryl had started to have. He wanted it, of course – what man didn’t want sex? – and Beryl almost insisted on it, but he did feel bad. He knew that she thought of it as some sort of bond, tie. He thought of it as a hobby. He told himself she was doing all right out of the deal. He bought extra coal for her digs (which were as squalid as he’d imagined). He took her out for dinners; had even bought her a new coat. He wanted to be kind. He wanted sex. He didn’t love her.

‘She’s falling in love with you.’

‘I think she’s tougher than that.’

‘You don’t understand women.’

‘I understand women like her, Mam. It’s you who doesn’t. You judge her fairly densely protected heart against your own very tender one. Beryl is the sort that does all right.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

He could hear that a group of morris dancers had started their performance. He sat up and looked around, spotting them near the carousel.

‘I can’t take them seriously.’

‘I’d have thought you’d have appreciated them more than most. What with your mind that’s been made wide and tolerant by your experience in theatre.’ His mother threw out a playful grin. He raised an eyebrow at her. ‘It’s an art form,’ she insisted, but her good-natured grin betrayed the fact that she was pulling his leg.