He waited.

‘Always another day, Clem. That’s what they say to you, these women. She’d look at me and then at Fay, crawling round on the ground, and say, You go, you lose your job, who’s gonna pay the bills?’

He was studying every chalk mark. Every footstep he’d delayed, every mile he’d talked himself out of.

‘I remember once, I packed the car and said, That’s it, and she said, Good-o, you go, but there won’t be no coming back. I got in the car, and started it, and she stood watching me.’

He’d never told me this bit before.

‘And then I switched off the engine, and she went in … and I wonder, I wonder, Clem, what would’ve happened if I’d driven off.’

‘She would’ve had you back, Pop.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Of course.’

‘I might’ve found it, and we might’ve moved to New York, lived the high life.’

I almost laughed. ‘New York? Maybe you woulda bought a Roller, Pop?’

‘Yeah.’

He stood, turned on all six taps in the water trough, and waited for the overflow to wash away his map. ‘Can’t have anyone knowin’.’

We transferred our best sketches onto transparencies, took a few projectors outside and connected them with extension cords. Soon we had outlines on the wall. Most people had chosen one or two, but Nick had agreed to let me have three. I’d shown him my sketches, and he’d loved them. Mr Glasson, rear view, big arse wobbling as he fitted someone’s car seat. Mr Champness standing Zen-like with outstretched finger with finches. And finally, mower and me, surveying the yard, as a stray cocked its leg on mine. Piddle, too. Small drops soaking my socks. Nick had laughed and said, ‘We’ve gotta have this one.’

Lesson three: Tuesday 9 February. We stood drawing our final images on the art room wall. Curtis, a duck he’d traced from M (for Mallard); the girls, Boy George and the Thompson Twins (although I’d told them they’d date). There was a boy called Matthew, a Catholic whose parents couldn’t afford St Luke’s, and he was tackling St Paul on the road to Damascus, although it looked more like North East Road. And, finally, Lars with some sort of moonscape.

Despite the heat, it was the best lesson ever (not that there was much competition). Nick stood back, supervising, suggesting, smoking. He indicated Mr Glasson and said, ‘Do you think he might recognise himself?’

‘Not a chance.’ Although I’d given up on Mr Fantastic, I’d retained a comic sensibility, and the Glasson cleft was its own Grand Canyon, the cheeks their own subcontinents. ‘Faces are overrated.’

‘How’s that?’

‘A nose, mouth, eyes—you know what you’re getting. But as for the arse …’

‘And what’s the story with the bird man?’

‘Across the road. He has an aviary, and spends hours watching them. I thought this could suggest he’s talking to them.’

Mr Champness was Fantastic too. Oversized belly, so he looked like an inner tube; big nose and bulb eyes; more hair, so he couldn’t complain.