We sat for what must have been an hour while Robert, balanced on a stool, squinted at us. It was the first time I’d seen him concentrate for so long; he shifted his gaze back and forth, his eyes darting from the page up to us, then down to his sketchbook. His eyes moved constantly, but his face stayed very still. Occasionally he rubbed at the page with an eraser and frowned.

The bench became cold and I felt my bottom going to sleep, but when I shifted, Kathryn nudged me. ‘Can’t wait to see how it turns out,’ she whispered, giving me a sideways glance.

‘Stop moving,’ said Robert.

He didn’t do that thing you see artists on the television doing – holding up the pencil to measure the perspective. He just sketched, and his touch was light, but deliberate. As he drew, I saw his determination to get it right, to see it properly: his frown was just like it had been on the day we’d watched the peacocks together at Brownsea.

At last, Robert held the sketchbook at arm’s length and screwed up his eyes. ‘That’ll do,’ he said.

Kathryn was the first to stand. ‘Let’s have a look then.’

Before he could protest, she had his sketchbook in her hand.

She stared at the page. ‘Look at this, Howard.’ She waved the book at me, as she’d done with his spelling book all those years before. ‘It’s just like us. He’s really got it.’

Robert bit his lip and looked away, but I saw his smile.

I stood next to Kathryn and we held the book together. There we were, in grey and white lines and smudges: a middle-aged couple sitting on a bench, surrounded by flowers. My hand looked big on her shoulder, and Kathryn’s nose was slightly too small, I noticed, but he had captured something. Perhaps it was her hopeful look, my questioning stare. Whatever it was, we were there, on his page.

two: Joanna, October, 1985

two

Joanna

October, 1985

A boy called Robert arrives at school.

When he comes into the classroom, he looks straight ahead as he walks. Not at the ground, or at anyone else (not even at me), but straight ahead, eyes front, like he’s in the army. Swinging his arms a bit, but with too much swagger to be military.

His grey school jumper is smooth and straight. A black velvet tick swoops across his chest. No one else has one like it. No one else has trainers like Robert, either, fat and round at the ends and dazzling white. His laces are so white and soft-looking they make me think of the snowdrift we sometimes get at the bottom of the garden.

After registration, I catch his eye. ‘You’re new,’ I say. ‘I’m Joanna.’ I give him a big beam, noticing the lack of whiteheads on his chin.