“I’ll report them to Stan Rail. He gave me his business card.”

—

Stan, however, is unavailable. Tom, after a restorative cheese sandwich, seems to be putting the episode from his mind. He does some dinner preparation while I plan confirmation classes with Clive Perry and catch up on my correspondence. Enticing smells issue from the kitchen, but when I go in there the room is empty, a pot simmering on the range.

I find Tom upstairs, lying on his bed. One of the boxes from the attic is on the floor, its contents scattered about, among which is a pile of notebooks bound in blue paper. I pick one up. The label on the front reads Yvette Haddad. La Géographie. “These are Mum’s homework books,” I tell Tom, “from her last year at the Lycée. She won a prize, you know.”

She showed them to me, rather embarrassed, as she was packing in Alexandria. I remember turning the pages, very moved both by the exquisite results of her labor and by her pride in her work.

“I’m into the Bombardment of Alexandria,” Tom murmurs.

So he is. I hadn’t noticed, but he’s got L’Histoire open in his hands.

“This was in 1882,” he continues. “Brits and French propping up the regime against the locals, surprise.” He abandons his reading and gets up off the bed. “Time to take Bailey for a quick stroll.”

I look at my watch. It’s already a quarter to seven. “Blast, I didn’t put the wine in the fridge.”

“Don’t worry, I did.” He looks at my face, and grins. “Courage, mon vieux.”

His accent is impeccable. So it should be. He’s been taught by two francophone women who love him.

—

I shave, follow it with aftershave. The smell is repellent—polecat. Can aftershave go off? I wash it from my face, inadvertently drenching my shirt collar. While I’m changing my shirt I hear voices in the hall. Tom, and Ellen. They must have met in the lane and come back together. Hastily I button my dry shirt and pull on a sweater. Thanks to Tom’s kind gift, all the sweaters in my drawer now smell faintly of hashish. I catch sight of myself in the mirror: an unkempt fellow with the expression of a startled burglar stares back. “Get a grip, Acton,” I murmur, brushing my hair.

—

I come downstairs to an unimaginable wonder. Ellen is inside my house, not only here but clearly happy to be here, chatting to my son and bearing gifts in the form of a multicolored bunch of dahlias from her garden and a large Kilner jar. “Nothing more exciting than stewed apple, I’m afraid,” she says. “Lucy and I went mad this year. We had a bumper crop and couldn’t bear to waste it. So nobody escapes!”

Her cheeks have taken color from the walk, and she smells of fresh air.