Rob yanks his fingers free from my hand and twists round. ‘Spacky,’ he shouts. But he doesn’t go after Shane. He just stands there, straddling the crossbar, coat creaking, feet planted in the wet grass. Repeating that word to Shane’s disappearing back.

three:Howard, November, 1985

three

Howard

November, 1985

In the end, it was Kathryn who announced the change. She took Robert to Mr Badger’s tearoom in Darvington and told him, gently, that we thought his school wasn’t providing the best guidance. There was another school, a better one, one that could nurture his artistic side. Wouldn’t he rather go there and develop his talent?

No one mentioned the Paul issue.

And, to give Robert his credit, there hadn’t been any nonsense. It had been a swift, seamless change to the new school. He hadn’t actually said much about it at all. He’d just gone very, very quiet. And Kathryn had trailed after him, trying to get a word, a smile.

One Saturday evening, not long after the change, Kathryn suggested we make a blancmange, ready for Sunday lunch. ‘It might make him laugh,’ she said. We’d made a rabbit-shaped blancmange on green jelly grass for almost every birthday until he was eight. After that, I felt he was too old for such things.

I remember the first time we made one. Kathryn had bought a silver mould in the shape of a rabbit in preparation for his third birthday party. That first time we tried, the custard wasn’t thick enough, and when Kathryn turned it out, the rabbit’s features were indistinct, its ears no more than bulges, its tail a mere ridge on its behind. ‘Whatever is it, Howard?’ Mum asked, as Robert pointed at the pink blob and laughed.

‘It’s a blancmange rabbit on jelly grass,’ I said, looking over at Kathryn.

‘Silly me,’ Mum smiled, enclosing Robert’s pointing finger in her hand. ‘What else could it be?’

But over the years, together, we mastered it. It was my job to tear up cubes of green jelly, pour on boiling water, pop out to the kitchen every now and then to check on the state of the setting. It was difficult, at first, to get it just right – too soft and it would be watery, too hard and it would be rubbery. When Kathryn had turned the blancmange out onto our largest serving dish, the one with the blue rim and blue dots in the middle, I’d be there, waiting with the knife, ready to chop and shred the grass. My blade would cut through the shining green jelly, and I’d scatter the glassy fragments on the plate around the wobbling rabbit.