In Waltham rain covers the windscreen in sheets that are beaten back only for a second or two by the wipers. Because of the shortcut we’ve come into the town from an unfamiliar direction and I don’t recognize the buildings. “A Fine Fare, look,” says Tom as we cross a square, the tires slapping over cobbles. “We could stop and get some stuff—”

“I can’t look. I can’t even see where I’m going.” A signpost appears between torrents of rainwater. Southampton. “That’s not right—”

“We’re fine. Don’t panic, Dad.”

“I’m not panicking.” Everyone uses this word now.

“Take the Southampton road, then.”

“No,” I say. “That’s back the way we came!”

Disobeying him I bear left and head, for want of anywhere else, toward a narrow alley leading off the square. To my alarm, I find I’m overtaking a moving bus. For a paralyzing second we jockey neck and neck for the same tight little exit. The bay window of a florist’s shop bulges into the road, bringing me to my senses. Three yards from the plate glass the sluggish brakes bite at last, and Tom and I are flung forward against our seat belts. We both shout loud curses, and the engine stalls.

No impact from behind or sides, only the blare of horns as the bus shoots past in a stream of electrically lit windows, followed by an irate camper van, a V sign held up against the misty windscreen. I realize Tom’s got his hand on my hand which is on the gear stick and shaking.

“Shit,” he says. “No harm done. Shit.”

“I have not heard such language . . . ,” I recite.

“Since the Battle of Bréville,” he concludes, with an uncertain grin. “Why do we always say that when we swear? Nobody else does.”

“I’ll tell you later. Help me find a parking space and we’ll go to the supermarket. You were right, by the way.”

“What?”

“I was panicking.”

We cross the square, collars up against the rain. Above me a weathercock, high on an imposing municipal building, backs his green rump into the wind. Tom swings the shop door open and I make for the frozen aisles, throw cardboard cartons into the trolley. Sausages, fish in bread crumbs. Then tins—carrots, potatoes, peas, soup.

“Seriously, Dad? You can’t peel a potato?”

“I haven’t got time.”

“I don’t think you’re eating properly these days.”

I snort. “Mind your own business.”

He lopes off toward Fresh Produce.

—