Nat’s younger brother, with whom he shares the room, is an interesting case himself. He is referred to by all the family as “the child”, despite being sixteen. He is a fine musician and spends much time improvising on a toy harpsichord which looks and sounds rather dubious. Composition is his forte. I suggested that he may well one day become a famous film composer. He plans to attend the Royal College of Music after securing the necessary A-level results; he already has good enough music grades. I always think people who go to the College are so much nicer than those who attend the Academy.

“The child” invariably has a kaleidoscope or a telescope pressed to one eye, in search of lunar rainbows and shooting stars in particular. Red striped confectionery of the American candy type dangles from his lips. Most inexplicably, he sports an old-fashioned little pink hearing-aid, of which I can find no mention in his medical records. Although the appearance that the “child” affects is to say the least eccentric, he nonetheless interacts well with his peers and teachers. And I believe that his reasoning was true when he said there were still some things he wanted to do before he grew up. It is nice to see childhood taking its own course and not suffering artificial termination at the age of nine or ten. “The child” knows how to have fun. I also gained the impression that the transition from childhood to adulthood would be quite easy and natural for him, unlike Nat who had preferred suicide to growing up.

The “child” has covered his territory with reams of manuscript paper, should inspiration seize him during the night. A bookshelf contained his Ladybird books and Nat’s books about weird art and literature and the bizarre, sad life stories of its creators.

After leaving school, Nat had turned down a place at art college, in order to take the brave path of studying alone. He was slightly grudgingly supported by his parents, who hoped he would one day take up the opportunities a student life offers. The results of his endeavours had not pleased him, and few of his art pieces survived the onslaught of his ruthless perfectionism. A few canvases not destroyed occupy a corner, each carefully wrapped in several layers of tightly bound brown paper. Atop this sorrowful pile is a dusty pestle and mortar once used for mixing his own pigments. He had only used the most ancient solutions and concoctions. How he obtained knowledge of these techniques is a mystery: no art school teaches such formulae.