‘I was kind of ornery before sometimes,’ George went on. ‘Can’t deny it.’ George was fat like Wify, powerful like her, but soft rather than chunky even so, despite his farm-boy muscle; a roll of suet, white and pulpy, showed at the meeting between shirt and pants beneath the glorious coat. But when he smiled there was charm in the curling mouth, not a familiar trait, new to Jonathan and almost as unexpected as the wink. In the candlelight, the shadows around the shiny, round eyes flickered large and small, lengthening and foreshortening over the plump cheeks, as though they were breathing vents into the dungeon that Jonathan knew lay behind them. ‘But I made up for it, didn’t I? You still got that old McGuffey?’

‘What do you care?’

‘You know, I remember those pages word for word practically. Bet you do, too, huh?’ Jonathan could already feel the effect of that one great gulp of alcohol; it was not unpleasing. He sipped from the cup, holding the liquor in his mouth before swallowing it, closing his throat as best he could against the burn. ‘But you don’t learn much from that crap, do you? I mean, what good is reading about a boy goes skating, a girl plays with a hoop? What’s that got to do with anything? Ain’t you gonna answer me?’

‘What for?’

‘You got to talk to me, Jonathan. I mean it. Drink up.’

‘I got nothing to say to you.’

‘Sure you do. We’re more alike than any of them others. You’re the only one can read as well as me. Come on, drink with me. You’re the only one anywhere near as smart.’

‘What do you want, George?’ Jonathan said. The sweat was running down his back, yet in the heat George sat there in his frock coat, and Jonathan knew with all the passion of his soul if the coat were his, he’d keep it on, too: to hell with heat, to hell with everything. He tore his eyes away and pinned them to the dank dirt wall beyond, where ants marched in neat, military lines, carrying on the orderly, ordinary business of life. He drank deep from the tin cup.

‘I want us to be friends,’ George said.

‘No you don’t.’

‘I know I was a shit. Ain’t I said as much?’

‘I ain’t arguing with you about that.’

‘Then argue with me about something else.’

‘No.’

George sighed, again refilled Jonathan’s cup. He leaned back then and talked about the countryside he rode through on his rounds. He told about some of the men he’d met; he was a good story-teller. He talked about weather and horses. He told a joke.

Jonathan frowned. ‘What do you want, George?’ he said again. He felt an edge of nausea – the 110-proof red probably, but he didn’t know that, and so he drank again – and realized suddenly that despite his iron control, his eyes were wandering in the direction of the coat. He gritted his jaw and turned his head away.