That night I dream about my father. We are fishing along the river, walking and casting and talking quietly. Papa is wearing his work trousers, tied up with a length of twine instead of a leather belt. In the dream I remember the belt has worn out, and my father hasn’t got around to replacing it. We cast and cast again. Sometimes we stop at a deep pool for a while. It’s high summer, and the trees are full of cicadas. I tie on a fly that’s like a cicada; a tasty meal for a fish. A mayfly lands on the surface of the water, and a trout rises lazily and gulps it down. That should’ve been my hook, I cry out. My father just laughs. Never regret seeing a beautiful sight, son. What does he mean? I’m confused: I wanted to catch that fish. I cast and cast, getting angrier and angrier, but the trout doesn’t rise again. I look round for my father to help me catch the fish, and see that he’s lying on his back in the grass. Is he injured, or just sleeping? Then I realise, with a sinking feeling, that it’s not my father any more, it’s Boss.

* * *

Every day I watch as Boss heads around to the side entrance of the big house and comes back with a pail of food. The first day I eat the cold turnip I’ve brought with me for lunch then watch as Boss chows down on the thick meat sandwich from the pail. The next day, as we sit on upturned buckets outside the shed, he passes me a piece of sausage. After that, he always brings back extra in the pail. Maybe he asks them in the kitchen for extra, or maybe he tells them about the new boy; either way, I don’t care.

At first I eat fast, like a dog, thinking the food will be taken off me if I don’t swallow it down quickly. But when I understand there will be food at lunchtime, it becomes something to be looked forward to, and I force myself to eat more slowly. A tap on the side of the shed provides drinking water. Chewing and humming, I imagine the Travesters in the household eating the same food: thick wedges of dark bread, slices of sausage, chalky cheese. Maybe even the Director is eating this. When I make some comment along these lines to Boss, he tips back his head and laughs.

“Sure they don’t eat this food,” says Boss, his eyes wrinkling. “This is peasant fare, boy.”