They do speak—Janet bought him a mobile phone and calling card, and he can now talk to his son in London for surprisingly little money. He’s distrustful of this, mindful of the days when an international phone call meant weeks of low-level anxiety until the phone bill arrived. His youngest grandson frequently tries to persuade him that it would be free to call the UK over the Internet, but he doesn’t see how that could possibly work, and in any case doesn’t own a computer.

Calls start the same way—hellos and how-are-yous, then awkward silence. “How’s your health?” Henry asks.

“Terrible,” he replies—he truly doesn’t want to discuss his ailments, neither interesting nor fixable. Instead, he asks about Henry’s work. How are the students?

“It’s not just teaching that I do,” says Henry wearily, as if he has rehearsed this argument before. Perhaps he has; Jason’s porous memory forces repeats of entire conversations.

“I know. You have to do the admin as well. So does Janet, you know. In fact, the other day she told me she had a meeting that went on the whole afternoon.” As he speaks, he remembers that Janet hasn’t taught for at least a decade.

“I do research, I publish papers—I’m an associate professor. Dad, it’s not just about face time with the students. We have postgrad monkeys to run the tutorial circus. I’m an academic.” Henry, he can tell, is getting frustrated and annoyed, which in turn makes him sound like a teenager. His voice grows strangled, as if he is only a hair's breadth away from snapping at his father. He wonders how his son deals with his students, who are probably much less well-behaved these days.

“Are you going to write a book?”

“I’ve written a book. Three. I sent you copies.”

“They’re somewhere in the flat. But I don’t mean some textbook. A real book. Something normal people will read.”

“Dad—” Again, that clenched-throat noise. It can’t be healthy.

“I saw on the news that your students are rioting,” he says, trying to change the subject.

“They seem to do it every year. There’s always something, some war or government policy to be unhappy about. Too much free time.” Henry has always been distinctly antipathetic to any kind of political agenda. Perhaps his long view of history has given him a sense of nothing ever changing, not really, and therefore the best thing being to keep your head down and get on with the things in front of you. Jason can sympathise with this.