‘It’s not like they’re that successful.’

‘Are you kidding? They made something of themselves, Clem. And do you know why?’

‘No, Pop.’

‘Cos they had to.’

Peter said, ‘You do five subjects. I can help with more.’

‘You don’t have to.’

He jiggled his hand through my hair and said, ‘Clemmy baby, who’s all grown up?’

‘Get off.’ As I pushed him away.

‘Don’t need Uncle Peter’s help no more?’

‘I’ll …’

But he was up, and had me in a neck hold. ‘I wiped yer bum, I may as well help with yer essays.’

‘You did not.’

‘Bullshit.’ He called, ‘Mum!’ Then he grabbed my arm and took me outside to Val, who was removing clothes from the line. He said, ‘Tell him. When Fay left him here, and you were busy, who wiped his arse?’

Val wouldn’t be drawn. ‘Bottom.’

‘Who?’

Val just smiled at me.

‘See,’ Peter said. ‘No secrets, old boy. Fixed that; I can fix your grammar.’

And here, I thought, seeing where he was standing, the spot you helped me pitch a tent, in preparation for cub camp. Where we spread the canvas, put it up the wrong way and had to start again. Where David brought out Coke and chips and we three (having barred Jen) sat drinking, and you said dirty limericks and your mum came out and told you not to corrupt me, I was only nine, and you said, We’re only trying to help.

He dragged me around the house, pulling my arm so it lengthened, Mr Fantastic-style. Standing me in front of the faded verandah, he said, ‘You, in a dress.’

‘Bullshit.’

And he went to his brother, and turned his wheelchair so he could join in. ‘Didn’t he, Davo? Clem in a dress, and this was his little stage. We all gathered out front and Jen raised the awning and he turned on the tape player. Dancing Queen, young and clean only seventeen …’

‘Never did.’

‘You can dance …’ Pointing at me accusingly.

‘I remember,’ David said.

Val had come around, without her washing. ‘You did,’ she agreed.

‘You can dance …’

‘Why would I put on a dress?’

David was giggling, but he kept turning to check the street. Peter jumped onto the verandah. ‘And we all applauded. Me and Davo, Mum, Mr Champness, Doug, everyone.’

‘Never happened.’

Art changed. Radio off. Lead on cartridge paper, as we all worked. Me, Mr Bulljaw: part-man, part-bull, with horns twice the size of his head. Big nostrils with clag-grey mucus; demonic eyes venting steam into a Lanark afternoon full of unsolved crime. Bulljaw could talk — ‘Yield, Champness. Unhand her!’—as he bleated and farted, rising into the sky, the stars, the outer reaches of the universe.

Nick had said, Think back to when you were a kid. You picked up a pencil, you wanted to leave a mark. What was it?