‘All our departments do well, of course, but the arts are a particular pride for us.’ He leaned forward and smiled at my wife. He was younger than I’d expected, and wore round steel-rimmed glasses. On his desk was a framed photograph of a collie dog, and a colourful paperweight in the shape of a snail.

‘That was made by one of our fourth years. Pottery class. Lovely thing, isn’t it?’

‘Lovely,’ Kathryn agreed.

‘Unusual,’ I said.

‘Some parents don’t seem to hold the arts in much esteem, but we think it’s very important to nurture the children’s creative sides.’

‘Robert’s always been keen on art,’ Kathryn said. Beneath the table, she took hold of my hand and held it.

‘Excellent.’

‘And we both think it’s very important.’

‘Even better.’

Kathryn gave my fingers a squeeze.

‘Oh yes. Our son’s very good,’ I said, ‘very good. On the artistic side of things.’

‘Splendid. I’ll put him down for Monday week, then. Best to start as soon as possible.’

In the car on the way home, Kathryn patted my knee. ‘Maybe it will be the best thing for him,’ she said.

I tried to think of a way I could soften the blow. What could I do that would help my son to adjust to the new school? I knew that whatever I said wouldn’t make it any easier for him, so I decided on a gift.

I bought him a professional-looking art set: a tin of graphite drawing pencils arranged by grade, 9B to 2H (as the man in the shop explained to me), a thick sketchbook with a hard cover, and a set of thirty-six Winsor and Newton watercolours, mixing palette and paintbrush included.

‘Thanks,’ he said. He ran the tip of the new paintbrush along his top lip. ‘They’re really soft when they’re new.’

We were standing together in the kitchen. It was Saturday afternoon. Kathryn was pouring out some tea. We hadn’t told him about the change of schools. Not yet.

‘Why don’t you do your mother and me?’ I asked.

‘Draw you?’

‘With your new pencils.’

Kathryn put the pot down. ‘Howard, I’m not sure – ’

‘Why not? We can be models.’

Kathryn and Robert exchanged looks.

Then Robert let out a short laugh. ‘Really?’ he said.

‘I’d like it if you would.’

‘I don’t know…’

‘Please.’

His face softened. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘All right. I’ll draw you.’

We sat on the bench at the bottom of the garden for the picture, framed on either side by sprays of purple asters. I put my arm around Kathryn’s shoulder and held her close.

‘You don’t have to smile,’ said Robert. ‘But you do have to stay still.’