‘Exactly.’ She wiggled the bolt over in its carriage. ‘It’s a bit stiff. Is there anything I can do about that?’

I stared at her and she raised her eyebrows back at me. ‘Well?’

‘Where is he, anyway?’ I demanded.

‘He’s gone to see about a job on the farm. Plucking turkeys. Christmas money. I said he could.’

‘With Luke?’

‘All the boys do it, Howard.’

I flexed my hands in my pockets and breathed out. And in again.

I took the screwdriver from her. ‘Let me do that,’ I said. I leant into it with all my weight and twisted the screw tight to.

Kathryn watched me in silence.

‘I’ll just test it.’ I stepped into his room, giving Kathryn a gentle push out into the hallway, and closed the door on her.

I slid the bolt over into its hole and stared at it. Kathryn had chipped the paint on the doorframe but hadn’t done a bad job, overall.

‘Is it working OK?’ I heard her call through the door.

I didn’t answer. I rested my forehead on the cool wood of his door. With one hand I gripped the bolt and pulled it out of its home, then pushed it back.

‘Is it sticking?’

I was aware of the marigold smell of his room again. The blank blueness of the walls and bedclothes. The brightly coloured bottles and tubes containing God knows what. The jewellery box for his earring on his chest of drawers.

‘Howard? Are you coming out?’ Kathryn rattled the door handle.

‘In a minute.’

Was he with Luke right now?

‘Howard?’

Champion emblazoned across his chest.

‘What are you doing in there?’

Sweater too tight.

‘Are you coming out?’

She had given them her blessing.

‘I’ve got to go to work,’ Kathryn called. It was Thursday. Late opening at the library. ‘I’ve got to go, Howard.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes.’

She waited for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll see you later, then. There’s a casserole in the oven. It should be ready about seven. Save me some.’

I listened to her footsteps on the stairs, and, after a minute, the front door slammed.

Where would I find a trace of him? I wondered. In the drawers of the table we’d bought from MFI for his homework? Underneath his denim-like valance sheet? In the wardrobe I’d once pasted with cut-out pictures of Sooty and Sweep? Then I noticed that, on his bedside table, he still had the model Somua tank I’d bought for him at the museum, years ago. I picked it up. Its wheels and gun were furred with dust. I weighed it in my hand, studying the blank face of the soldier sitting in the armoured turret. I decided to take it with me. I would have to keep it safe for him.

I unbolted the door.

eight: Joanna, November, 1985

eight

Joanna

November, 1985