Nora Farquharson reappeared. She looked at Charlie and Daisy kneeling side by side in the sand, then studied their drawing.

Charlie said: ‘Pretty good, Mom, don’t you think?’ He longed for approval from her, that was obvious.

‘Very good.’ She gave Daisy an appraising look, like a mother dog seeing a stranger approach her puppies.

‘Charlie did most of it,’ Daisy said.

‘No, he didn’t,’ Mrs Farquharson said bluntly. Her gaze went to Charlie and back. ‘You’re a smart girl,’ she said. She looked as if she were about to add something, but hesitated.

‘What?’ said Daisy.

‘Nothing.’ She turned away.

Daisy stood up. ‘I know what she was thinking,’ she murmured to Eva.

‘What?’

‘You’re a smart girl – almost good enough for my son, if you came from a better family.’

Eva was sceptical. ‘You can’t know that.’

‘I sure can. And I’ll marry him if only to prove his mother wrong.’

‘Oh, Daisy, why do you care so much what these people think?’

‘Let’s watch the tennis.’

Daisy sat on the sand beside Charlie. He might not be handsome, but he would worship his wife and do anything for her. The mother-in-law would be a problem, but Daisy thought she could handle her.

Tall Joanne Rouzrokh was serving, in a white skirt that flattered her long legs. Her partner, Woody Dewar, who was even taller, handed her a tennis ball. Something in the way he looked at Joanne made Daisy think he was attracted to her, maybe even in love with her. But he was fifteen and she eighteen, so there was no future in that.

She turned to Charlie. ‘Maybe I should see Passion after all,’ she said.

He did not take the hint. ‘Maybe you should,’ he said indifferently. The moment had passed.

Daisy turned to Eva. ‘I wonder where I could buy a Jack Russell terrier?’

(ii)

Lev Peshkov was the best father a guy could have – or, at least, he would have been, if he had been around more. He was rich and generous, he was smarter than anybody, he was even well dressed. He had probably been handsome when he was younger, and even now women threw themselves at him. Greg Peshkov adored him, and his only complaint was that he did not see enough of him.

‘I should have sold this fucking foundry when I had the chance,’ Lev said as they walked around the silent, deserted factory. ‘It was losing money even before the goddamned strike. I should stick to cinemas and bars.’ He wagged a didactic finger. ‘People always buy booze, in good times and bad. And they go to the movies even when they can’t afford to. Never forget that.’

Greg was pretty sure his father did not often make mistakes in business. ‘So why did you keep it?’ he said.

‘Sentiment,’ Lev replied. ‘When I was your age, I worked in a place like this, the Putilov Machine Factory in St Petersburg.’ He looked around at the furnaces, moulds, hoists, lathes and workbenches. ‘Actually, it was a lot worse.’