I remembered a trip to Rosetta, seeing two boys riding a donkey along the dusty paths by the irrigation channels of the countryside beyond the town. The donkey’s iron hooves stirring up the dust, its tripping indefatigable trot. The two children jolted along in and out of the shadow of date palms, one dressed for school, his face washed and hair combed, the other small, tousle-haired, tunicked, barefoot.

“He might have taken a little brother or sister along, to ride it back. That donkey would have work to do during the day.”

“She’s right,” said Bridie.

“Oh, of course,” Philip said. “I mean, for you, being from Egypt, it would be an everyday occurrence . . .”

“Oh, yes.”

“I didn’t mean to imply there’s anything wrong with traveling that way. Far from it. I should imagine you all just . . .”

“Hop on a donkey,” I said, “without giving it a second thought. Absolutely.”

He cleared his throat, drew for a bit, while his forehead turned slightly pink. Then he scratched his head. “I’m an ignorant cuss, aren’t I,” he said finally.

“I confess, Philip. I went to school by tram.”

“Oh, you wicked woman.” He sat back, eyes gleaming, marvelously entertained. “To make fun of a simple artist who knows nothing about foreign lands, whose education has been all paint and perspective and figure drawing.”

When I had finished laughing at his expense I said, “Tell me about these things, then. How did you start out?”

“Drawing casts in the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford. Greek and Roman statues, torsos, busts. The Slade—my art school—was evacuated to Oxford during the war, you see, and it was years before they returned to London. I was in my second year by the time we got back to Holborn. And there we drew the male nude for a year and a half. The male nude, the male nude, nothing but the—”

“Enough of that, Phil,” Bridie said. “It’s a respectable girl we’ve got here, a vicar’s wife. She doesn’t want to hear about men in the nip.”

I stared. “In the nip?”

“Irish for naked.” Philip sighed. “Oh, dear. That sounds worse. I’m sure Ma thinks naked is even ruder than nude. Don’t you, Ma?”

“I refuse to be drawn further into the subject,” said his mother, folding her hands.

—

When the time came for him to leave, we got into my car. He was so lanky, his knees came high up in the passenger seat. His trousers were baggy on him, a big leather belt holding them up. His sweater hung loose from his shoulders. I’m making his thinness sound unusual: I don’t mean to. A lot of men were thin in those days. Women too, come to that. But the loose clothes emphasized it, perhaps. Gave him a famished look.