He pecked at the numbers with a finger. Away in the distance the bell rang and he wondered if the sun was shining or the rain beating on the roofs of the houses, jigging on the window panes so that you couldn’t even see across the street let alone see the cormorants bobbing on the sea.

I will give it ten rings, he thought, then I will really have tried.

‘Hello,’ said his mother’s voice in his ear. She sounded tired.

‘Mum …’ He paused, wondering what to say next. He saw her standing in the neat hall, the receiver clamped to her ear, as if she were afraid that his words might escape and never be recovered. He heard her quick breath. He heard her speak his name. ‘Laurence?’

Unlike everyone else he knew, she always called him Laurence. ‘Didn’t I choose it against the world,’ she had said to him once, ‘because I liked it. It’s as good a name as they come and there’s no call for anyone to pass remarks about it.’

He had always suspected that she had named him for Laurence Olivier but had never had the courage to ask her if this was so.

‘Laurence – are you all right? Where are you? You shouldn’t do a thing like that. Davey!’ She raised her voice and called down the hall towards his father’s study. ‘It’s Laurence. It’s Laurence!’ She blew her nose. ‘You are bad, Laurence. We …’ She couldn’t go on.

‘Mum …’

He heard her mumble something and then his father’s voice was in his ear.

‘Where are you, Lar?’

‘Dublin.’

‘You should have let us know, son, before you went running off like that.’

Lar didn’t answer. He was, he thought to himself, thirty-six – long past the age of having to answer for his actions.

‘Lar?’

‘I’m in Dublin. I’m all right. I just rang to let you know. It’s raining cats and dogs.’ He really didn’t care if they were interested or not.

‘Dublin’s a good place, rain or shine,’ said his father. ‘When will you be back? Your mum would like to go down and clean up the place for you before—’

‘No, thanks. I don’t need her to do that. I’d rather she didn’t do it. I don’t know when I’ll be back.’

‘Term starts in a week.’

He didn’t reply.

‘Have you spoken to the Head?’

‘I have spoken to no one. I don’t know when I’ll be back. I just rang to say that I was all right. I don’t need to be interrogated.’

‘Your mother has been upset.’

‘No need.’

‘Of course there’s need.’

There was a long silence. Lar could hear his mother’s voice. He wondered what she was wearing; grey, he supposed, she nearly always wore grey. He saw her quite clearly, wearing grey, standing by the grandfather clock, tears making her face ugly.

‘I think we should talk, son. Would you like me to come down?’ His father’s voice was gentle.