Never having known anything different, Tom has generally been inclined to forgive his father for his distance, his loud, cruel jollity in which he and Mum are always victims, never companions. At least he has a father. Some of his friends never knew theirs – lost in France or Flanders. Or they have been sent back to England while their fathers stay with their regiments in India and Burma, or serve at sea, or plant tea or rubber, or help govern the Empire. It is the way Daddy treats Mum that upsets Tom. When he is happy, Daddy regards Mum as an object of mockery, and when he is angry he just goes at her. Not with his hands: Daddy isn’t a violent man, at least not with his fists. But his tongue is clever and cruel and once he is in the mood, he will goad his wife until she locks herself in her dressing room, sobbing. Then he might start on Tom, who will have to stand there, listening to the litany of his failings past and future until Daddy loses interest. No, Tom doesn’t feel any sadness over his father’s leaving, though he wishes he did. He feels relief. And that makes him feel terrible. He sits and smokes, which makes him think of Daddy even more, because it was his father who presided, in a roundabout way, in Tom having his first cigarette.