PIKLE   KIP FENN   CONTACT

KIP FENN - REFLECTIONS  
by Paul K Lyons

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Chapter One
Tom, Julie and School

'When every snowflake and every thumbprint is different, and we have no idea how to predict or control the formulation of their patterns, why do we still have the conceit to believe that we can fix and formulate the minds and characters of our children? Let us teach them with wisdom and humility not try and change who they are.'
The Snowball Effect or Parenting made Difficult by Julia Derwent (2006)

It is new year's eve 2019, a memorable night. I should have been at a college ball in London, and my father, Tom, should have been in Dorking at a marquee fest with his latest companion. Only my mother, Julie, was in the right place, in Edinburgh, after being pestered for many years by an old school-friend, Rachel, to visit her there. I was staying at the house in Godalming, my past home, over the holidays to recuperate, having badly sprained an ankle injury during a volleyball league match against the Richmond Reelers. Julie had wanted to cancel the trip north, but I insisted she go. Coincidentally, Tom phoned, not knowing where I was, to tell me he had been dumped by his girlfriend, and was on the M25. I told him I was alone at Julie's house in Godalming and suggested he come and keep me company. He arrived half an hour later.

I used the crutches lent me by St George's Hospital to hobble to the front door and back. Tom was as dapper as ever, even in his late 50s, wearing a dark blue overcoat and light blue scarf round his neck tied like a cravat and tucked into the lapels. He tried to hand me two bottles at the door, but when I declined for obvious reasons he put them down on the side table, next to an oversized picture of me aged 11 in school uniform.

'Do you know what the bitch did to me?' he said; and continued without waiting for an answer, 'she set me up, she bloody well set me up.'

'And you didn't see it coming?'

'Did I hell. Let's have a drink son and I'll tell you more.' But then he remembered he had left something in the car, and dashed out to return a few moments later with two large plastic boxes.

'Dad! One for my birthday and one for Christmas.'

'If you want.' He beamed, but it wasn't a smile that had flourished for seeing me, rather it was the one he wore as easily as his suit when he had some new toy or product to show off, or some new joke to tell. I worked my way back to the sofa, while Tom deposited the boxes, removed his overcoat, and disappeared to the kitchen to open one of the bottles and bring us both a glass of champagne.

'You'll have to sort out food for us too, there's some decent ready-mades in the fridge.'

'Later, later. So, how did you bugger up your ankle? Mmm this is good.' I told him as briefly as I could, knowing he would not be very interested.

'After jumping to block a smash, I landed on the foot of one of the Reeler's hitters, it shouldn't have been there on my side of the net ­ the goon. My foot and ankle and leg crumpled beneath me, and I was reduced to a shrieking mass of pain. The coach ice-packed the ankle for me, and then, after the game, took me to the hospital.'

'Did you win?'

'Yes.'

'And was that African chappy there.'

'No, Dad, Alfred's studying and playing in Manchester.' Once, and once only, my father came to see me play. I was about 15, and my school team had reached the final of the inter-school southeastern cup. We won, but this was of no interest to Tom. After the match, he wanted to know why I was always slapping hands with the black chap, and to remind me that Africans were a dodgy lot. There was a grin on his face, but I walked off in silent fury.

'Mea culpa. I'm a bit distracted, you understand. How's your mother?' Tom asked.

'OK. You could call her yourself.'

'I could. Neat place she's got, but then it ought to be, seeing as it cost me an arm and a leg.'

Within minutes Tom had emptied his glass and refilled it. He told me about Kerry, or was it Cherry ­ I forget, there were so many after Julie. This girl's brother was hosting a large marquee party to celebrate the birth of a child and new year's eve. Unfortunately for Tom, it was also a splendid occasion for Kerry to show off her new man ­ not my father. He was staggered at the depth of her hostility. Poor Tom. I watched his false smile transform into a grimace as he explained how she had taken exception to all the times he had talked about past girlfriends.

'What a bitch. She must have been a great actress.' He emptied his glass. 'All the way here, I've been trying to work out when exactly, in our three month relationship, she turned, and I've no idea, no idea at all.'

'Put it down to experience, Dad,' I said. This was one of his stock phrases, yet, already at 20, I felt wiser than him.

'Fuck experience.' I laughed, he didn't.

'What's that there, then?' I asked pointing to the boxes. I saw the weight lift from his brow, and a glint appear in his eye.

'Guess.'

'A new dinner service for Julie.' This was a joke, but elicited no more than a grunt. 'An Earthmate with Zeta gaming facilities?' I was never a huge fan of computer games, but I did know this had been an object of desire that Christmas.

'You wish. Better than that.'

'A model space station? I give up.'

'Scalextric. It was for Kerry's boy. I liked him. He liked me, but I'm buggered if I was going to give him 1,000 euros worth of two tier racing track and RC cars with programmable features and a computer console, after what she did.'

'No, I don't suppose you were. So what are you going to do with it?'

'Play with it. Now. With you.' He looked around the room. 'Could be bigger, but it'll do. I'll get us a refill, and then get us going. But first there's something else.' He opened the smaller of the two boxes and produced a battered but serviceable VHS player, which he deftly plugged into an adaptor and then into the old freestanding television. From his overcoat, he retrieved a cassette (the kind which, at the time, was considered collectable) and then set it going.

'A bit of nostalgia son. You won't mind if we keep it playing. You were two days old, I was 20 years younger, the world was in a happy mood. This is a non-stop recording of BBC 1 on 31 December 1999, from early evening through to the early morning. You, son, only saw about half an hour of this, when Julie brought you in to breast feed.'

'Where did you get it from, and, more to the point, why?'

'Bought it. A week ago, in a Jester shop. A whim.'

'It's a good idea,' I said.

The first programme which came on, while Tom was setting up the track, was a famous episode of Eastenders, but one I'd never seen. I was a faithful addict during my early teens, before the BBC sold the show for a fortune to William Caxton who used it to help launch the People's Channel in 2021. And, during that time I probably took in a few historical episodes on the repeat channels or in anniversary slots. Although Caxton slowly drained its quality, the most famous UK soap lasted into the 2030s.

Only after its demise, of course, did Eastenders become the classic it is today, beloved and analysed endlessly in English drama departments around the world. Gregory (one of my favourite pop-historians, brilliant but also often flawed) claims that, during the golden era of oil and chips, Eastenders became more culturally important in Britain than Shakespeare.

'It's coming back to me now,' Tom said as he crawled around the floor, 'I don't believe it ­ they haven't changed the connecting mechanism after all these years. You have to place one at an angle to the other and then wiggle it in. What do you think?' I could see he had made good use of the furniture, for tunnels and bridges, and several pots crafted by my grandmother, for underpinning bends or for raised sections.

'I'm not covering for you, if one of those ceramics break.'

'They won't. Let's give it a go.' He reached into the box and pulled out some model cars. 'Do you want the silver Rhyme, the red Jaguar, the cream Princess ­ bloody hell, I remember those ­ or the turquoise Rigatoni Mini?' I may have mixed up the colours, but my memory of those model cars is surprisingly fresh.

'Which do you recommend?'

'Do you want speed or traction?' And so we played for an hour or more, stopping occasionally whenever he wanted to adjust the circuit, or to fill our glasses. He won every race, whichever car, whichever track, and I blamed my losses on having to keep one eye on Eastenders.

While eating microwaved lasagna and drinking a bottle of wine stored in the pantry for cooking purposes (the champagne having long since disappeared, largely down Tom's gullet), Julie rang. She didn't want to wait until midnight in case I'd gone to sleep. We wished each other all the best for the new year. I saw no reason to mention Tom's presence. It would only have upset her.

Perhaps Tom, fuelled by drink, had already lost his playful facade before the phone rang, but, as I manoeuvred round on the sofa to speak to him, he suddenly appeared all washed out, lost, empty, vanquished. Sitting there sloppily in the old armchair he had always used, his legs wide apart, I watched while his head fell forward as if asleep, leaving the loosened bulky knot in his bright red tie sticking out below his chin, and his arms, clothed in the well-ironed sleeves of his expensive shirt, sprawled out along the arm-rests.

'Dad.' It was only a word, to get his attention. But it was the wrong word, or the right one depending on which way you look at it.

'I'm not your Dad.' He said it without raising his bowed head. I thought I didn't hear what he said, and was about to say 'pardon', but stopped myself. The words and their meaning, nevertheless, filtered through into my consciousness; and then he repeated them anyway.

'I'm not your father. I can't be.' I said nothing. Everything had gone blank, but vividly blank, if that's possible. I kept on looking at him, and eventually he raised his head.

'Well, fucking say something,' he said. 'Well, fucking say something.' I'm very fond of that phrase. It might have come from Eastenders, except that the television was showing crowds of celebrants in Moscow, and, in any case, Eastenders was not then owned by Caxton.

I could make up the next bit, but the truth is I don't remember emerging from the blankness. I might have asked the primary questions, or he might have asked them for me, 'How do you know?' and 'Who is?'. Secondary questions, such as 'Why haven't you told me before?', came later.

This is what I learned that night. Tom was first alerted to his infertility during a serious affair in his early 20s with a 'busty social worker'. She was very keen to have children, but when she didn't become pregnant, she demanded they both get tested. When he came back with news of a very low sperm count, the relationship broke down. He told himself it was only a low sperm count, not a zero sperm count, and put it out of his mind. He went with a succession of weak women after that to restore his confidence, and eventually decided to marry Julie, who had youth, if not beauty, and was fool enough to have him. But he never told her. When she fell pregnant, after more than a year without contraception, he quashed any idea than she might have been unfaithful, and believed his own internal propaganda. My paternity was never discussed. As I grew up, however, without any physical characteristics similar to Tom (he was fairish, slightly built and of medium height, while I was dark, full-boned and tall), he allowed his suspicions to grow. Who knows whether he did this to justify his own infidelities, or whether his unfaithfulness escalated as a consequence of his suspicions. It was only on the brink of their separation that Julie hinted, in one violent argument, that Tom wasn't my father. Given Tom's insecurities in this area, which he had never revealed, this sparked further arguments. Julie, though, stubbornly refused to discuss the subject further. Long after the separation and divorce, Tom found himself unable to forget the matter. In order to get a DNA test, he forged my signature on the mandatory consent form, and acquired some of my hair. This was after the Bangkok trip and during my first year at university.

As for the who, Tom had no idea, no clue.

My memory re-engages about the time he is shaking his head and saying 'sorry' several times in a row. 'For what?' I asked mechanically.

'I'm sorry I'm not your real father, sorry for you, but much sorrier for me too. You're a fine son, the best.' This must rank as the nicest thing he ever said to me, and I was about to become emotional when he reeled out a rescue line. 'But heh, it's just as well you don't have my genes or you'd never have made it into the volleyball team.' I lay there uncomfortable but immobile on the sofa, while Tom eased himself out of the chair and left the room. The TV was showing crowds along the Thames, and firework celebrations from places further east around the globe.

I tried to think if I could recall any tall men from my childhood. There was only my uncle Alan, Julie's brother, but such a liaison was too horrible to contemplate. Moreover, although my mother was not religious she was morally upright. I may, youthfully, have wished Alan to be my father on occasions, especially when Tom was away so much or appeared disinterested in me, but Alan's relationship with Julie was too honest, too straightforward for them to have hidden a secret. I could barely believe my mother capable of such a deception, one so deep and dark. But, at that moment, I had no doubt I would find out who my father was as soon as she returned from Edinburgh.

Tom re-entered the room some minutes later, more sober, more in control of himself, and proposed another game of Scalextric. I declined pleading enough was enough. I too needed the toilet so hobbled my way there. On the way back, coming through the breakfast room, I passed a photo of Tom, Julie and me taken when I was about six. I have it on the wallscreen now. I am in school uniform again (what would one expect with a teacher for a mother) and standing between my parents, but looking up at Tom, with something akin to love in my eyes. Julie is glancing down at me, and Tom, as usual, is staring forthrightly at the camera. How strange that I should be able to touch the very same emotion now, looking at this photo, that I felt then. Love for my father, love of my father, warts, Bangkok and all. It made no difference, I realised, standing there, held up by crutches, only 20 years old, that he was not my genetic parent, he was still my Dad, always was, and always would be. I told him as much then, and it felt good.

At about 11pm, we switched off the video, and flicked through various broadcast programmes looking for one hosted by someone both of us could put up with, which was not so easy. I vetoed any game shows, and Tom blocked any political or current affairs-type discussions. We finally compromised on a truly old comedy, Some Like it Hot with Marilyn Monroe, to lift our spirits. Since it was a film we both knew, we could let it fill the silences, or switch easily into the laughter, when our talk faded out. I wanted to know why Tom had not acted earlier to confront Julie or tell me. I did not get a straight answer, but I did come to understand, more or less. With Julie, he felt no responsibility: whatever his own mistakes, her deception had been the greater. As for me, I believe he was afraid of what it might do to our relationship, especially since it had gone downhill since the horrible trip to Bangkok three years earlier (about which I will have more to say later). As it happens, Tom's revelation served to re-establish our friendship, albeit an intermittent one, which lasted through to his death in 2038.

We fell asleep in situ, only to wake groggy and cold in the early hours. I told Tom he should take my bed, but he wanted to leave. He packed up the Scalextric and old video player, when I said I didn't want them, and ferried the boxes to his sleek car, I think it was a Ford Presumption, but it could have been one of a dozen, he was forever switching models. Rain had moved in overnight. We said goodbye on the doorstep under the porch, embracing awkwardly, and one of my crutches fell to the ground.

* * *

I spent most of new year's day 2020 searching through all Julie's private belongings for a clue about her infidelity and my paternity. Fortunately, she was a tidy, ordered person ­ a characteristic she pressed into me from an early age ­ and I was able to find her personal papers without much trouble. An old pine dresser in the kitchen held various papers such as bills, home accounts, tradesmen's flyers, job quotes and jumble sale notices. There was nothing of interest there. Nor was there much to find in the small oak desk, dominated by a dark green personal computer console, or in the three drawer old-fashioned wooden filing cabinet, both of which were tucked into the darkest corner of the lounge. Everything here was connected with her teaching work. I decided against checking the computer hard disk, despite the potential treasure of email correspondence, in case she had a security mechanism which might give me away, and require explanation.

I saved the white-painted desk in her bedroom until last. Here, where I spent several hours, I was extremely careful to ensure that every bundle of letters and email printouts (organised by correspondent, and with neatly printed copies of her own missives), every packet of photographs (labelled), and every diary (largely blank with only intermittent entries) were replaced exactly as I found them. I should note that I never saw any of the letters again (with one exception), nor any of her email correspondence except for some extended email dialogues between her and Alan, which I acquired after my uncle's death. Since I did not find any correspondence among the personal possessions I inherited from my mother, I assume she destroyed or lost them during her later years.

I discovered much about my mother that day, although, from this distance, it is difficult to untangle all of what I learned then from what I had already known, especially from Tom during the Bangkok trip, or from what I may have found out later. Also, whereas some of the information was pertinent to my search, some may have been stored and lain dormant, to be appreciated in conjunction with other events. I recollect, in particular how the letters to Alan, who lived abroad mostly, and the occasional diary entries, mostly in the period up to when I was 11 or so, revealed the depth of Julie's misery. While the journal entries were unrestrained, the letters told the same story in more coded language, a consistent tale of Tom's frequent trips away, his disinterest in Julie or in me or in any domestic business at all, and his ugly belligerence. Where he was brutish, she was sensitive, the subtext read, where he was cold, she was warm, where he was hard, she was soft. Oddly none of this was a surprise. I had lived with an atmosphere between them until I was 13, and my mother's written expression of the difference between the male and female character appeared rather normal. It was more shocking to realise that my mother saw herself as a martyr, and that she considered the self-sacrifice of staying with Tom as necessary for my well-being. She must have camouflaged this side of her character well, at least from me. Or, maybe, children have so many other daily petty grievances against their parents they never see the bigger faults. A year or two later, when I no longer felt the need to be so loyal to Julie, I recall Tom, in a pub, choking with laughter when I suggested she had a secret martyr complex. Not secret, he spat, but 'plain, plain as a bloody pike-staff'.

It was easier to forgive another fault that eked out of Julie's writing, especially in letters to an old friend who had given birth at a similar time to her but had then emigrated to Canada: an overly zealous anxiety about me. I had had glimpses of this when overhearing her talk about me to friends on the phone, but the letters and journal entries were stronger stuff. How strange it is to read about oneself in the third person. She wrote in great detail about my physical development, my behaviour, my progress at school, for example, as well as about my faults ­ disobedience, stubborn silences, insufficient effort. There was nothing unusual there, even at age 20 I could tell that, and yet she wrote with the intensity of an obsessive. I imagine this came from a deep sense of responsibility towards me, which I had never properly appreciated, and one she had never come to terms with ­ perhaps because she had chosen the wrong husband, or because her husband was not my father.

The first time the house phone rang that day I was already installed in my mother's bedroom, on her bed in fact, which was the most comfortable place for me, even though I had to hop backwards and forwards to the desk for each new bundle. But, as I had forgotten to bring the receiver upstairs, I was obliged to try and hop-rush down the stairs to answer it. On the way, I fell quite badly and bruised my thigh. It was Julie. She kept asking if I was well because I sounded so funny, so tense. And she asked, with that slight accusatory tone of hers, if I had a girl with me. I improvised well-ness, allowing her one more holiday day.

Of all the letters/emails to my mother, the most absorbing were those written by Alan. (Indeed, if anyone were to investigate the extensive files of my own correspondence stored on Neil, they would find the Alan Hapgood file one of the longest, the most easy to read, and the most stimulating. Not that emails have ever replaced the warm satisfaction of receiving a real letter sent by postal courier.) This was not only because, of all her correspondents, his life, spent working for the environmental organisation WWF, was the most interesting, but also because of his warmth and humanity, and the relaxed style with which he wrote to his sister. At this time, he must have been posted in Brussels or Geneva or another of WWF's offices, otherwise I would surely have seen him during the Christmas period. As I have said, he was a great, as in excellent, uncle, and he became a great friend, but since it was clear from the letters that Julie had never confided in him, there was no need to quiz him on this particular matter.

And what of my paternity? There was little to help me, except for this one sad handwritten (in green ink) letter, which alone was housed in its original envelope.

'Dearest Julie

How abysmal, how awful, how lonely these days. I can hardly bear to see you in school. You are so cold, so unfriendly. I'm not sorry for what I did, what we did, nor for who I am. Are you ashamed of me? Did you fall out of love with me in the space of one weekend? Did I do something wrong? Say something terrible? I know you feel something for me, you told me so. And I know you loved me in those nights, I know you did, I know you did, I know you did.

I love you. Love me again too.

Martin x'

I have this letter stored on Neil (during a subsequent visit to Julie's house, I conspired to copy it) and am looking at it onscreen now. The note is not so sad in itself but because, in one corner, my mother has written to herself 'I love you too Martin', and because several of Martin's words are smudged by, I imagine, a tear stain. I recall, also, that this was the one and only letter I discovered in my mother's entire collection with any romantic content at all, and that the single piece of notepaper had been much handled. The envelope was stamped January 1999.

In her 1998 diary, I found some further evidence. There was one entry in mid-November in which she complained about Tom's absence, and recorded her decision to accept an invitation to go to the theatre. The invitation was from 'a new young teacher with manners' who had, in less than a term, become 'a favourite with the Head'. My mother must have been flattered by the man's interest, and had justified responding because of her growing resentment towards Tom. A further short entry, at Christmas time, concluded with the simple phrase 'Martin rang'. The 1999 journal, a separate book with even fewer entries than the previous year, recorded nothing in March/April, round about the time I was conceived, except a bout of flu and depression which led to several visits from the doctor.

Despite the content and date of the letter, I was convinced that Martin had to be my father. I scoured the house to see if Julie had kept any school newsletter or prospectus from that period, but I couldn't find anything. I tried to project forward as to how, when my mother returned, our conversation would proceed, and how I might introduce Martin's name without giving away my illicit search. If I had been sufficiently angry this embarrassment might not have been a problem, but I wasn't: however large my mother's crime, I did not want her to know I had been rifling through her letters.

That evening, a Wednesday, I was taken out by some old school-friends. We went to the Mankind net pub by the river the other side of Godalming, and played MoonFusion for hours against a team in Seoul. We lost. I couldn't concentrate, and, that difficulty apart, I was hopeless at netgaming. All day Thursday I pretended to myself that I was reading a controversial book on the failures of the United Nations (which I did, eventually, use extensively for a mini-thesis), but in reality I was brooding, and becoming increasingly unsettled by Tom's revelation. I telephoned Alfred, on holiday from Manchester University, in Lagos, but chickened out of talking things over with him.

Julie returned on Friday night. It was still pouring with rain. She had rung the doorbell without thinking, I suppose, because she couldn't be bothered to find her key. By the time I had hopped my way through into the hallway, she was already inside, standing on the mat, a sweet picture: her glad-to-be-home-but-weary face, her damp glistening hair, fastened up as usual in a tidy bun, her overlong mottled green raincoat dripping, and a suitcase dropped down by her side.

'Sorry,' she said. And, for a moment, I thought she was apologising for her adultery.

'No taxis?' I asked rhetorically, knowing that, although both of us would normally walk from the station less than half a mile away, we would often buy a ride in bad weather or with heavy loads.

Half an hour later, we were sitting in the breakfast room where she had brought a tray of tea things. I listened to the details of her journey with curiosity, not duty, for she kept her anecdotes short and did not ramble. She was a good teacher, I am certain, one that holds an audience with confident and interesting delivery, as opposed to a poor one who holds an audience with discipline. But, all the time, I was thinking about how and when I was going to confront her. She's tired after the journey, I told myself, I'll wait until tomorrow. Then she quizzed me on what I'd been doing. I looked away, hesitated, said nothing. And then the words came out.

'Tom was here, he got drunk and told me something.' Words come out, we don't exactly choose them (not unless they are part of a prepared speech or presentation). And then we hear them, think about them, and then rally round to make sense of them with expressions, or more words, or actions. This was my brooding, jumping out of me.

'Tom was here, when, why?'

'He phoned for a chat, and when I said you were away, he said he was nearby and so popped in. That's all.'

'And?'

'And what?' I was afraid, trying to back away from the confrontation.

'You said he told you something.'

'Yes, sort of. It's a bit difficult. It can wait until the morning.' She had her elbows almost vertical on the table, and her chin rested in her hands. Her face was in the shadow created by her head from the ceiling light above. This was my mother, and I felt closer to 12 than 20. I looked away. Silence. I used silence a lot as a child. It was a defence against inquisition. Tom could never deal with it, and lost his temper. Julie, though, was more artful. She used patience, and soft-speaking, and, what? ... Yes, an expression which made use of a gentle encouraging nod, a slight sideways tip of the head, and raised eyebrows. I glanced towards her, saw this expectant look, and said the simple words I'd rehearsed.

'Tom says he's not my father.' The human face is a marvel. We train it to express so much, and yet it expresses so much else involuntarily. How can I explain the physical changes in that moment as I watched my mother take in my few words? A narrowing of the iris, as her brain switched attention from vision to thought, a tensing of the forehead, a drawing in of her cheek muscles, with a consequent loss of the slight smile she tried to hold in company. Certainly, the colour drained out of her skin, turning her very pale.

'Tom says he's not my father. I want to know if this is true, and, if it is, who my real father is.' This was another rehearsed statement. In my projection forward to this conversation, it was easiest to imagine my mother would say nothing immediately, and therefore to prepare a follow-up. I may have repeated the question too quickly, too urgently, for Julie then reinvigorated herself instantly, and responded sharply.

'He was glossy, he was talking tosh.' She got up and began to clear away the tea things. Denial. I had not expected a denial, and was momentarily phased. Could Tom have made it all up? Why would he do so? No.

'What else did he tell you?' she called through from the kitchen where water was running. 'Has he taken up Buddhism?'

I shouted back, not in anger yet, but loud enough so she would definitely hear me.

'He's had us ­ him and me ­ checked out with DNA analysis. It's 100% sure, Mum, a 100%.' I heard the water stop running. She padded back into the room, and sat down. I said nothing. I watched her thinking for a few minutes. I was in a state of high excitement, although I kept myself motionless and cool, waiting, fully expecting a momentous revelation. After a long silence, she spoke in a low distant voice, not to me, but to herself.

'I don't know, I don't know what happened. I had suspicions. But I don't know.' She got up again, heavily this time, taking the teapot with her.

The pitch in my own voice and language rose to follow her.

'You must know. It's not that fucking difficult to work out who you were sleeping with nine months before I was born. Or is it?' She stopped in her tracks, astonished to hear me use such language.

'I can't help you,' she said and walked out of the room.

I resorted to loud crude sarcasm next.

'So you weren't screwing anyone else at the time, you were completely faithful to Tom, and I was a miracle.' I collected one crutch and hopped after her. I stood in the doorway of the kitchen. 'Were you sleeping around, or weren't you? You must know, come on Mum, you teach sex education, you know how it happens. Who's my bloody father?' I wasn't given to swearing, or vitriol, or even anger most of the time, but on this occasion my normal behaviour patterns gave way to some combination of those I'd seen employed by Tom or Eastenders' characters. I stood there screaming while my mother, her back towards me, did the washing up.

I stopped soon enough. It was as though someone else was doing the shouting. I doddered back to the other room, where I sat down, and calmed myself. I considered whether I should ask her directly about Martin. Yet this was too risky. Firstly, she might simply carry on saying nothing; secondly, as I've said, I could not bring myself to let her know I had been through her private things; and, thirdly, my illicit behaviour could create a diversion for her and attenuate the righteous force of my demands to know the truth. I decided to make a more rational appeal. She returned to the table, looking at me with a rare sense of vulnerability.

'Mum, you can't not tell me. I have a right to know. Was there someone else?'

'Not really.'

'Not really?'

'There was a young man once, when your father was away, but, ...' she paused, appearing uncertain and confused.

'Yes,' I said encouragingly.

'But ... but I can't tell you any more. I don't know any more.' She paused again, having become vague and very distant. After that she closed up completely. Despite my insistent, but now calm, questioning, she would only repeat that same phrase, 'I can't tell you any more', with the strangest inflection on the last two words. Then she went to bed. I quizzed her again in the morning, but when she refused repeatedly to answer any of my questions about the past, or to acknowledge my right to the information, I left. I packed my rucksack (with some difficulty), called a taxi, and took a combination of trains and another taxi to get back to my Bermondsey flat. Tom rang while I was waiting at one station or another to tell me to go easy with Julie. It was just like him to be late with good intentions.

What did my mother mean by 'any more'? This taxed me for a long time afterwards. Did she mean she was not able to give me any further information, or did she mean that she no longer had any answers, that she was confused about the past. I never found out. Stranger still, I never discovered whether she even knew what had happened to her. She had certainly blanked out the truth in some way, but whether this was an involuntary unconscious initiative, or whether she deliberately pushed the information so far back in her mind and made the conscious decision not to access the knowledge, is hard to know. I incline to the latter view.

I am undecided whether to conclude this story now, or to leave it for another chapter.

***

A peppery omelette was brought in for me some minutes ago, and while eating I launched a database of early snaps that are now fading in and out on the screen. Some of these are so grainy, a tell-tale sign that they were scanned or snapped digitally in the period when computer memory was constrained by size and expense. They exude a glorious sense of generalised, not personal, nostalgia: I know who these people are, but they do not touch any live memories. Other photos from later on in my life are more meaningful in an emotional way, but they must wait their turn. For now, I might pause on one or two of these pictures.

Here are Tom and Julie outside a registry office. He is in a white suit, tightly fitted, with a compact pink rose in one lapel. He looks like a dandy. He may have had tendencies in that direction but, although a vain man, I thought of him as well-dressed rather than over-dressed. Perhaps, if circumstance had give him more freedom, he may have gone foppish. Julie is in a pink dress, and looks like a bridesmaid. In another photo, confetti is falling around their shoulders, and they are surrounded by family members. Alan, to one side, is looking amused and holding a box, from which a teenage girl is reaching for a further handful of confetti. Julie's mother, Eileen, is there on the other side. She was a stern but fair woman, also a teacher, and for many years the head at a large primary school in Reading. She was a keen potter. I never saw much of her. Tom used to tell me, when I was older, that she was more interested in her pupils and her pots than in her own children or grandchildren. She could never bring herself to approve of Tom, whose charm always fell flat with her. It is possible we saw her more when I was very young, but after our move to Guildford, and after her retirement to Parsonville, a custom-built retirement village near Bournemouth, she never came to visit us. As a family, we went to see her twice a year at most, although Julie alone went more often. Eileen's husband and Julie's father, Oswald Hapgood, had died of a brain tumour when Julie was only ten. There was also a distance between Eileen and her son Alan, which grew wider as they got older. Eileen was a traditional Tory: in her dotage she would reminisce about Margaret Thatcher, the Conservative prime minister in the 1980s. But Alan, despite her best efforts, went left, then green, and didn't start the journey back towards the centre until well into middle-age. My mother, by contrast, could never be bothered with politics, other than when it affected education policy.

Percival, Oswald's bachelor brother, stands at the back of the photo. He was a grey fellow. Oddly, he came to life when pulling crackers or playing tiddlywinks. In conversations, his contribution was often confined to nods and shakes. He tried to interest me in fishing once, not long after his retirement. I believe he spent time in a mental home. I remember his death, or rather seeing his dead body, the first one I ever saw in the flesh. I was 12.

Tom's father and mother, Barry and Evvie, are in the photo too, looking pleased with themselves; or is that relief in their eyes and smiles? I never knew Evvie, she died soon after the wedding. Barry emigrated to Malta.

Here is a favourite photo of Tom, Julie and me in Monte Carlo in May 2003. Tom is sitting on the bonnet of a bright red racing car, I am on his lap in bright red shorts, an orange t-shirt, and a baseball cap sporting the name Ferrari. Julie is standing next to us laughing at something Tom, or the camera holder, has said. She is wearing a light yellow frock, and a straw hat, and is looking her prettiest. This is how I picture her whenever I think of her as a young woman in the time before I had my own memories. She had this photo enlarged and framed; it was displayed in one room or other in the St Albans, Guildford and Godalming houses. There are two anecdotes about that holiday. I was told both of them a few times.

Julie's eyes would mist over when she looked at this picture ­ this is later, after Tom had left ­ and she would drift into a nostalgic mood.

'That was the best holiday we ever had, not because of the place or the weather, but because your father had never been more loving or caring. I had not been to Monaco, but he knew it well from business trips, conferences and exhibitions mostly. I was dreading the holiday, you were so young. I knew there would be multitudes of people and we would be pushing and shoving our way through the streets, amid the noise and smoke and smell of those noxious and obnoxious cars. But something magical happened. On the very first day he showed us around the botanical gardens with wondrous views across the town and beaches, and he held both our hands. As I was gazing at the succulents, the prickly ones, the curly ones, he was chattering on about the race as though my interest in it really mattered. He was the Tom I first knew, all childish and inspiring, all charm and innocence. The next day, the day of the main race, we negotiated the teeming crowds without any problem. He was determined you should have the best view of the race, and so he kept you on his shoulders most of the time. He bought us expensive ice-creams, took us to the aquarium, and played with you for hours on the beach. I remember ­ I know this sounds funny ­ falling in love with him again.'

I should note, although I'm racing ahead all of 80 years, that Lizette broke her hip in those very same gardens. It was a horrible injury which brought our retirement mini-journeys to an end.

Tom's story about the photograph was told to me for the last time that new year's eve when he came to visit while Julie was in Edinburgh. He saw the photo half hidden behind a pot on a windowsill in the lounge.

'That's a Ferrari, son. It came 8th ­ or was it 10th ­ in the 2003 Monaco Grand Prix. Do you know who drove it? Damn, neither do I. I forget.' He stopped to laugh. 'But how did I get the photo, that's the puzzle? You can't just wander around and sit on these cars ­ they cost millions.'

'No idea, Dad, how did you get the photo?'

'Oh I know you know, but it's worth the telling.'

'The re-retelling.' He snorted, and ignored me.

'After the race, it was heaving with people in every direction, all going back to their hotels and yachts. I didn't want it to be over, so we walked a kilometre or more ­ you were a great little walker, long strong legs even then ­ until we came to the track area with the grandstands and the pit areas. But of course we couldn't get in, there was a huge wire mesh gate and several two metre tall guards. Vehicles and pedestrians were entering and leaving constantly, and all were having their identity checked. Inside, one could see mechanics and drivers and advisers and owners and promoters milling around in the after-race milieu. I so wanted to be in there. I went up to the friendliest looking guard. I had to pull you hard because your mother was standing firm and holding onto your other hand. I had no idea what I was going to say.'

'Let me guess,' I said. He snorted and ignored me again.

' "Ferrari here," and I pointed at you, "is three years old and he's never seen the real thing." This was in my best Franglais. "We only want to have a quick look at the cars, five minutes that's all. We'll be back I promise. Look I could leave you my credit card, my bag ..." There was a smirk of contempt on his face. And then, I'm not sure why, I said he could have my wife too. Julie looked shocked, as if it might not be a joke, but the guard smiled. Then he was diverted for a minute by a car leaving. As luck would have it, one of the passengers was old Limey Bimmerson from Exxon. I was embarrassed to be a punter and not on the inside of the show, but he leaned out the window, all friendly and smiles. "Hiya Tom, great race eh, Chet's down there somewhere in hospitality, this your wife? Hiya. Say hi to Harrison." Harrison was my manager at the time. And then the car whisked him away. The guard had witnessed the exchange, and came back over to us. He knelt down and looked you in the face. "What's your name son?" Good English. This would blow it, I thought. You said ...' Aren't parents the limit. At this point, Tom stopped and looked at me, so I could contribute to the pathetic story.

'Neil.'

'Neil. Yes, you little bugger ­ not so little now ­ you said "Neil", and I wanted to kick you across the other side of the road. Not that you could have known any better. Julie saw my face cringe, and bent down to gave you a hug. The guard simultaneously stood up to his full two metre height and laughed his head off. "I am so relieved," he said, "that your son is not called Ferrari; go on, but be back in ten." I bustled us through the gate before he could change his mind. Getting to the car itself was easier, we slipped under a rope, dodged round the back of a garage, and sweet-talked a mechanic. Even Julie was impressed.'

Here's another photo, more interesting in its way, for what it says ­ all too obviously ­ about my background. A group of mostly primary schoolchildren are standing/crouching together in several rows on a park lawn. All are wearing wellingtons and bright yellow pull-over bibs with black lettering saying 'Reading clean-up week'. Julie, a shy-looking 12 year old, and a lanky 14 year old Alan are the only two holding, what look like, walking sticks in front of them but which are surely litter guns. Between them, in the middle of the group and centre stage, is Eileen, in her prime. Eileen's dedication to clean parks led, possibly, to Julie's keen attention to green issues as a mother and teacher, and to Alan's career in environmental organisations. And the combined influence of all of them certainly affected the direction of my own career.

One more. It is a standard school photo. I am seven, though you could mistake me for eight or nine, given my height. I am wearing a dark blood-coloured school sweatshirt, and grey trousers. Across one side of my head is a wide white bandage, stretching from the middle of the forehead, skirting round the eyebrow, and down to the left ear. This was one week after the most frightening experience of my childhood (not counting Tom losing his temper with Julie or with me). I was cycling along a narrow dirt track near our house. When I came to a large builder's lorry which had stopped and was blocking the track, I tried squeezing myself and my cycle between the side of the lorry and a hedge. I was halfway along when the lorry started to move. The rear wheel, which was huge, caught the back wheel of my bicycle and crunched it to the ground. I leaped for my life to the side, into a thorn bush, bashing my head on a thick branch stump, and tearing my clothes. Only after the cycle crunching did the driver spot something wrong in his wing mirror, although he should have checked before starting off. My wound did not ache that much, but it bled a lot, and looked severe. It is the feeling of shock afterwards I remember most, the fear of what might have happened. The driver shouted at me, as though it were my fault, but a foreman appeared. He proved to be a surprisingly gentle man, and walked me home carrying the cycle. Kudos came my way at school, and then, after Julie wrote a couple of letters to the construction company, a cheque arrived. Tom helped me buy a new bicycle ­ one with suspension.

***

I see I have avoided making a decision on when to finish the story about my conception. No longer. I have decided to do so later. These photos have put me in a different frame of mind, and I am thinking about my young life and schools, especially Witley Academic. My earliest memory, or the one I have fixed on as my earliest, is of a broken window, fear and Tom shouting. I do not believe I was ever hit hard, although Tom visited violence on me in other ways, chiefly by shouting and punishments which involved my muscles aching. Otherwise, I recall the feeling, not the face or personality as such, of a few playmates and teachers: Brittle Charlie who cried a lot; Quid who got his fingers stuck in bottles; Clarissa who came round to tea, because Julie liked her mother; KZ who knew how to find cricket balls at the recreation ground; and Mr Subramani, a teacher beloved by all (except my mother who may have been slightly jealous of his innate empathy with children, and my adoration of him).

Mr Subramani, who came from Birmingham (he called it Brimmingham for no particular reason), told us about the world. Some days he brought in a newspaper, showed us the headlines, and then explained how and why the news was important, but without talking down to us. This was the period when the conflict between the Christian and Arab worlds was only barely simmering, and when a general view prevailed that, so long as the United States and its allies spent billions on their war against terrorism, nothing as bad as 11 September could ever occur again. Years later, thinking back about Mr Subramani I came to believe he must have thought otherwise, he feared for humankind, and decided he would do what he could to educate for tolerance and understanding.

But, at the age of eight, when Tom found himself a new and better job, I was wrenched away from the school in St Albans to another one in Guildford, a commuter town south of London. There were good and bad things about the way that happened. We moved in the summer, so my 'forever' goodbyes at the end of the school year were lost among all the summer farewells. I would never see my best friends again, and I was inconsolable ­ until I saw several of them at the swimming pool two days later. There were lots of arguments in the week we moved, with all the packing and unpacking, but it was exciting to explore the new, bigger house and garden. There was an old rusty barbecue standing on the terrace out of view from any of the main windows. I acquired a box of matches, a potato, a frozen sausage and a chocolate bar. This makes me sick thinking of it even now. I used paper and a few fallen twigs to cook them. I didn't eat much of the black uncooked potato or raw sausage, but the melted chocolate dribbled down my clothes and gave me away. I blame this humbling experience on the fact that neither Julie nor Tom lavished enough attention on me in that manic few weeks. Worst of all, and hanging over me all summer, was the knowledge that I would be a marked boy at my new school, Boxgrove, since my own mother would be working there, as deputy head.

It was probably at this time ­ our move marks the most likely dividing point ­ that Julie withdrew from her intensive involvement in teaching me at home. I cannot testify as to what impact she had had on my education so far for I was too young. I do recall long sessions of reading, of writing, of talking about topics, and not being able to watch TV as much as my playground buds (did we call them buds then, I can't remember). There is laughter and fun in my memory of these times, but emotional colours of delight at achievement applauded and of disappointment at failures noticed are stronger. Julie could be stern, but I was always seeking the laughter and the smiles, and the only way to do this was with neat writing, correct answers, good work. (As an annex to this chapter, I am including extracts from Julie's emails to her brother. I am unable to provide much intelligence on my early life, or on Julie's role in my upbringing, so these extracts seem an essential addition to my Reflections.)

At Boxgrove, there was no Mr Subramani. I had 'grown-up' conversations with my mother about our relationship at school. She never learned to ignore me entirely, but she did her best. There was bullying of sorts. Without deliberately setting out to become a schoolboy guardian angel, I shamelessly used both my size and the threat of my connections to neutralise the bullies significantly. I became respected over time for never once actually enlisting my mother or any other teacher to defend myself or others. There were lessons and clubs. I competed in the pool with Josh, who invariably swam faster than me, with Little Manfred for top place in English, and with Veronica for bottom place in Music. I played chess as if it were as simple as draughts with Big Manfred. A school trip to Snowdonia was all midnight feasts, rain, and queuing up to partner Josh on his netgames console. It cost over 500 euros, or so he said.

Tom was away as often as not, and when not, there were rows. Julie would end up crying and lock herself in the bathroom. I would rush up to Tom and punch his arm. He would push me away, onto the floor or against the wall. There would be a snort, a rude comment, and then he would bang the front door. Julie would re-emerge, with make-up on, and a smile. When I asked why Tom was so angry, she would never tell me. As I grew older she would generalise about how adults have complicated personal and relationship problems that can be difficult to resolve.

'But if you love each other and try hard enough, then you can solve them,' I would say naively.

'Yes, my little wise man, yes. I hope so,' my mother would reply. What I noticed, in retrospect, about my mother was that somehow she was getting bigger, stronger. Perhaps this was to do with a confidence in her deputy head position, or, perhaps, after marrying someone older, she was finally finding her own character, her own way.

'Yes, my little wise man.' A phrase I consciously repeated on occasions to my own children, but I'm sure never to the same effect as Julie with me.

At weekends, Tom had a knack of turning me against his interests. Cards. He knew so many different card games ­ from cribbage to canasta, from poker to piquet ­ and he made me play them all long before I was even able to hold a handful of cards in order. Mostly, he took control of both hands, and got very excited in explaining how they should be deployed. But, whenever he expected me to show skill or knowledge, I was a dumbo. I gave up trying very early on, he was too demanding. He had a particularly nasty way of calling me 'stupid' or 'idiot' that made me squirm. (Lizette, the last love of my life, whose final absence now gives me time to spend writing these Reflections, was a wizard at Melbourne Bridge. I tried to learn, I did try, for her. I enjoyed the complications of stylised bidding and back-bidding negotiations but I failed to rise above novice level, or escape feelings of tedium.) And, thankfully, Tom ensured I would never be very keen on cars or motorbikes or speed. He filled up winter weekends with non-stop sport on the screen (Julie never agreed to me having a television in my bedroom), and dragged me to motor races or rallies whenever the weather was clement. By the time he left, when I was 12, I had developed both defensive ('too much homework', 'a friend's party') and offensive ('I don't want to go ­ I hate motor racing') means of avoiding these day trips.

I say all this, yet surprisingly I loved him greatly and missed him whenever he went away. He brought me presents, that was one of his secrets. He was always telling me anecdotes about people he had brushed shoulders with in the oil industry, or places he had been, or some new theory he had read in magazines about space and space exploration. I don't believe I was ever interested in what he had to say, I simply wanted him there, talking to me. But the best times with him were the trips to the cinema. He was the movie industry's ideal punter: uncritical, star-struck, and unable to relax in his seat without a giant pack of rainbow popcorn.

I can define three stages in my relationship with Tom through our movie-going habits. While he and Julie were together, and I was but a child, he took me to the cinema once a month, from the age of about five, in St Albans, then in Guildford. After every film, he would ask me to compare it with the last one or two we had seen, and then give it a rating. As I grew older, I asked him for his rating too. There was one film, Trumpet Boy, to which we both awarded top marks. It made such an impression that it both haunted and enchanted me for years to come. I have never forgotten the plot and some of the visuals. The flick itself aged badly and only achieved cult, as opposed to classic, status. The director, a Mexican, Pedro Antonio de Malancas, known as Pam, having been feted in Mexico, was seduced by money to go to Hollywood, where he made Trumpet Boy. He was dubbed as a new Stephen Spielberg (the director of ET). I met Pam once ­ but I must attempt to maintain a semblance of control and chronology over the order in which I set down my memories.

I was ten when we went to the Odeon in Guildford to see ... I forget what. By mistake, or Tom's artifice, we settled in the wrong auditorium. No-one had checked our tickets on the way in, and no-one claimed our seats. When the film started and Tom pointed out that it was classified a 15 (or was it 14 by then?) it could have been a documentary and I would not have cared. Trumpet Boy, a computer designed and animated flick from beginning to end, was set in the near future on an island country, Reefland, in the Caribbean, with extensive poverty and ill-health, and rampant crime. The plot revolved around a group of teenagers who begged, borrowed and stole to set up computer and internet facilities for other teenagers. As the movement flourished across the country, so the confidence and ambitions of the teenagers grew. Along the path towards their, eventually successful, overthrow of the corrupt government, they faced ­ as one would expect ­ many physical, moral and emotional dilemmas. At the time, the computer generation of teenage characters was praised as impressively realistic, and the media was full of debate about whether actors were needed any longer. Within a few years, though, the films from that era were already looking wooden and crude. For me, Manuel, the 15 year old pickpocket and trumpet player, with long purple hair and a large brown mole on his cheek, who reforms, leads the revolution, and becomes president for a few weeks, was and is as real as any actor-performed film character I have ever seen.

Stage two ­ this sounds like a committee report ­ lasted until the Bangkok trip. After Tom left, and while I was living at home before going to uni, we used to meet once a fortnight, unless he was away, on Friday or Saturday and go to the cinema. I would sleep over at his pad in Bramley, and then return to Julie later in the day. This was the phase in which my own tastes matured, and I was able to persuade Tom to come with me to see films which were more serious or even subtitled. Stage three is all the rest of the time. As an adult, I never saw very much of Tom, but this mutual enjoyment of the cinema kept our relationship one notch above dutiful. It was not uncommon for me to receive an email inviting me to see such-and-such a film that same evening or the next, and for me to refuse because of work or family commitments. On occasions, if I saw an opportunity a few days hence, I would email him about a specific film, and we would meet, eat some popcorn, watch the film, and drink a beer after. He told me, not long before he died, that he wanted Vincent (Mush) Mallow to play him in a film of his life.

***

From Boxgrove in Guildford I moved to the private school, Witley Academic (situated approximately 12 kilometres from Guildford and six from Godalming) and not before time: by the age of 11 I had outgrown primary school in more ways than one. Tom was earning a good salary, so he could afford the fees, and Julie acknowledged that, despite endless rounds of educational reform, there were still some private schools in a class of their own. Witley Academic, one of the original Academic schools (there were to be 100 before the company was broken up under the Fuller-led coalition in the early 2040s), was not in the premier division, but it was in the second, and more importantly, it was nearby and I could get there on the train. Most of my buds moved on to schools in Guildford, and I wanted to go to one of those too; but I didn't, and, if I had, my life would have been very different.

Second only to nearby Charterhouse School, which we passed often and which was definitely a premier division school, Witley Academic was the largest school I had ever seen, even though it had been downsized from its 20th century incarnation as King Edwards when hundreds of boys and a few girls had boarded in addition to a large daily intake. Some of the buildings had been sold off to computer and service businesses, and some of the land had been transformed into a housing estate. Nevertheless, in my day it boasted two playing fields, its own full-size chapel, a large library, a swimming pool, a roomy gymnasium, language labs, well-appointed science and engineering laboratories, and domestic science kitchens. Every classroom was fitted out with computer terminals, and the pupils had their own lounge rooms, with special areas for different age groups.

Flip. I cannot think of Witley Academic without Flip coming immediately into view. Flip, aka Philip Liphook, was an inspiring history teacher, albeit one with a strong prejudice towards the ideal of European integration, who taught me for seven years. He wore a ragged beard, a black teacher's gown, and suede shoes with stains. Yet, despite his uninspiring appearance he managed to make a positive impression from the outset.

'I have one rule, and one only. Can you divine what it might be?' Sniggers and silence and more sniggers. 'Is it: no talking when I'm talking? No. Is it: never be late with homework? No. Is it: no drinking in class? No.' More sniggers. 'Well come on then.' I can hear him now, his voice booming through the room. 'Well someone ask what it is then. Yes, you, what's your name?'

'Horace ...'

'Speak up, you're not here to learn to be a mouse.' We heard this more than once or fifty times.

'Horace Merriweather.'

'Yes, Mr Merriweather.'

'What is your one rule, sir?'

'Thank you for asking, Mr Merriweather. Your name, by the way, opens up boundless possibilities. My rule is that I tell at least one joke every lesson.' More sniggers, a little wary this time.

'Now then, help yourselves to the exercise and text books in the corner. We must press on. The Romans won't wait for us, will they?'

Immediately after that lesson, I joined a loose collection of dazed pupils who were divided as to whether our teacher was a crank, an idiot, a fake, or all three. Horace was there at the centre of the argument full of very firmly-stated but wavering opinions. I kept my own counsel for a while and then sneaked off to find out the truth from one of the older pupils. I returned to the group bursting with the news that Liphook's nickname was Flip and that it was true he never failed to make a joke in every lesson. But my class-mates had moved on to telling jokes of their own, and no-one was interested in my news. Flip's rule or promise, whichever way you look at it, proved less difficult to adhere to than we had imagined. He did tell a lot of bona fide jokes. He would stop mid-sentence to say 'that reminds me of a joke', and then he'd tell it, and we would roar with laughter. Frequently, the joke would be linked in some way to the subject matter which led us to suspect it was all part of the prepared lesson, but equally frequently the joke would be related to the morning's news, or a question from one of us. There is no doubt he had a comic gift for timing. When the joke was over, he would give us 15 seconds to recompose ourselves before expecting perfect attention. And, usually, he got it. Even without the set jokes, Flip could never get through a lesson without making us laugh. His style was so full of quips, gentle facetiousness, sarcasm, mimicry and puns that it was a wonder we ever learned much, but we did. We loved him, and wanted to excel.

Forty years later, at the gala show and presentation to celebrate the school's 500th birthday in 2053, Flip was nearly as old as I am now, but he could have been 60 not 90. His beard and hair may have turned white, but who could tell the age of the man underneath. He was among a long line of staff and ex-staff receiving special medals from ex-pupil Terrance Spoon for their service to the school. I was in the main hall due to my friendship with Horace Merriweather who served, albeit briefly, in Spoon's inept mid-40s right-wing government (which followed on from the Fuller administration), and who had done much to aggrandise the anniversary programme. He saw it as a way to revive the flagging fortunes of the school. This event and others in the week-long celebrations were broadcast on Euronet Solar (which is how I come to have it stored on Neil, and am watching it now).

When Flip arrives on the stage, the audience in the Great Hall erupts with applause and then cheers. It is as though we have all stored up so much appreciation and thanks for the man and have not been given a chance to express it before now. The applause continues as we watch Spoon place a commemorative ribbon and medallion over Flip's head. The two of them exchange a few words. After several attempts, Spoon manages to quell the uproar by raising his open-palmed hands and moving them lightly backwards and forwards.

'That's an applause to die for,' Spoon says. A ripple of laughter. 'Should we give Mr Liphook, or Flip ...' loud cheers '... the floor?' Louder cheers, which die down as Flip moves a step forward indicating his intention to speak.

'Not too many mice here today then.' Uproar. 'Thank you Mr Spoon, Headmaster, and thank you all. I take pleasure in seeing so many here today, I genuinely thought you would never survive in the real world ­ mollycoddled as you were in these buildings.' Laughter. 'Which reminds me of a joke.' A spurt of laughter, then a respectful hushed silence, and more silence. 'No it doesn't.' Said in a different way or with a lack of confidence, or without the wrinkled grin just visible under the white wiry hairs, this could be a bathetic statement. But it isn't. The camera pans around from Flip's face to the audience, and I can see we are all on our feet cheering and cheering again, as if it is the funniest joke we have ever heard. And, in its way it was.

'I was going to tell you the one about the history teacher who so loved his job and his pupils that at the age of 89 he couldn't resist coming back for one more fix of the old school. But I don't need to. You know that one and all the rest, and thank you so much. Until the next time.' Everyone is on their feet clapping. One camera rotates round again (there are many familiar faces) and this time I can see myself in the shot. Horace, who is seated a row in front, is leaning back, whispering to me.

'A1 star,' he is saying. 'No, A1 Star plus for Flip, there is nothing I enjoy more than seeing Terrance upstaged. He so, so hates it.'

That's Arturo next to me, he was already in his 30s, surprised to be there, and amused by the whole show. Why didn't Diana and Guido come? I forget. Diana and I must have already started to draw apart by then. 2053. Yes, that was the beginning of the end for us as a couple. I'll check the dates later.

Needless to say, Flip must have had a great and beneficial influence over my educational achievements since I excelled at history through the 16 exams and achieved a distinction in the 18 exams. He also ran a debating club and, for sixth-formers, the Brideswell Society (although Horace and I and several others were allowed privileged access to this before we reached the sixth form). The debating club, volleyball, the pool, homework in the library were among the activities that, most days, kept me at school long after lessons were finished.

It was through the debating club in the second year that Horace and I became firm friends. For several sessions in a row, all we did was listen to older pupils pontificate on subjects both interesting and deadly dull. It was only Flip's energy and encouragement that kept us coming. Then, about halfway through the year, he invited Horace and me to propose the motion 'Life will be better tomorrow' against two girls, one of whom was Gemma (who matured into a beauty and paired up with Alfred for a while). We set to our task with youthful enthusiasm, preparing and rehearsing our speeches as though our lives depended on it. I suggested we try and anticipate what the girls might say, so we would be better prepared for the concluding speeches, but Horace wanted to wing it. A good crowd turned up, our classmates and a fair sprinkling of seniors who came to mock. Horace, hands on hips to give himself maturity and more presence (hence the nickname Hip, like mine consciously similar to Flip), was fluent, witty and concise. By contrast, I was given to protective stooping, and verbose complicated arguments. We won by a close vote. On dissecting our performance afterwards, we came to the joint conclusion that it was Horace's inspired, but not entirely relevant, reference to hope that gave us victory: 'And what happened to hope. We are but teenagers, how can we not believe life will be better tomorrow?' We may have won that debate but we were wrong ­ so far as I can judge from today's standpoint. Yet, if Horace were here now and we were asked again whether we wanted to support or oppose the motion, I feel sure we would both, without hesitation, opt for the same stance again.

For the next 18 months or so Hip and Kip were often to be found together in the library researching on the net, or deep in discussion about some topic or other. Although we rarely lost a debate, sometimes it was too close for Horace's comfort. Criticism of my speaking style began to creep into our conversations, and this led me to object to his lack of depth and over-reliance on rhetoric. Witley Academic, as represented by Flip, inflated us without our knowing. But, whereas Horace's confidence was all brimming on the surface, mine was not. In the middle of the third year, I told Horace I no longer wanted to continue public speaking, but that if he could find a new partner who was happy to work in a team of three, I would do research and put forward ideas. There was no shortage of volunteers to pair up with Horace, but, to his credit (because I'm about to describe a debit and our falling out), he discussed with me who he should choose. Initially, Jeff Zimmerman was sceptical about the unusual arrangement we proposed but, when he saw the strength of our friendship and our commitment, he soon fell in with the plan. In practice, the system operated well: Jeff and I did the research, all three of us collaborated on the final preparation, and Jeff and Horace delivered the goods.

Now I must backtrack a year and reflect on a difficult subject. It was a Thursday. I had been messing around in the pool. I had changed, and was in a hurry to leave and catch my train. But, as I came out of the boys' changing rooms, I dropped some coins, one of which rolled across the corridor to the dead end wall next to the door to the girls' changing rooms. Two senior girls were chatting in the doorway, propping the door open. From my crouched position on the ground, I could see through into the dressing room. Several girls were half dressed or drying themselves with a towel, but one girl was entirely naked, standing upright and facing my way. I could see all of her except her head. This was the first fully naked girl ­ plump breasts and fair curly pubic hair ­ I had ever seen in the flesh. I froze. I stared. She walked forward a step, a beautiful step nearer, and as she did so she called to the other girls to close the door. One of them then turned to re-enter the changing room, which let the door swing free, and the other moved to exit. Momentarily, I was able to see the face of the naked girl, Melissa. In the same moment, before the door closed, she saw me. She did not blanch, or turn, or try to cover herself, she grinned, and the door shut. The girl remaining in the corridor then saw me scrabbling around on the floor for my coin and told me I should get a pair of binnocks.

That was the start. I have tried to analyse over the years whether my sexual preferences would have been any different if that episode had never occurred or if Melissa had shrieked and turned instead of smiling. Twice in the course of my life I have mentioned it to analysts of one description or another without the revelation leading to any firm understanding as to its relevance. During the following months, I overcame mighty feelings of guilt and embarrassment in attempting to achieve a repeat of the experience. The problem was invariably the same: the entrance to the girls' changing room was at the end of a corridor and there was no legitimate reason for a male to be there. On countless occasions, when the corridor was empty, I positioned myself strategically in a crouch outside the door, with a loose coin on the floor behind me. I moved as soon as anyone exited either changing room, or saw me along the corridor. Yet, even when luck was with me, and the first person to emerge came from the girls' changing room, I never had both a good line of sight and something to see. It was only when one of the girls in my own form, who'd never herself seen me anywhere near the changing rooms, called me a 'pervert' one day apropos of nothing in particular, that I woke up to the extent of my foolishness. I never entirely stopped hoping for another vision, but I scaled back my furtive spying efforts. Instead, I channelled my energy into bypassing the school filters on the internet computers which were designed to protect us from pornography and other undesirable material. I focused on the art-related netsites, particularly those linked to photographic galleries or magazines, which I found the most rewarding.

As for Melissa, I loved her, and lusted for her, but from a distance. She knew, and she knew I knew she knew. In the evenings, I was physically incapable of leaving the swimming pool, if she were there. I would watch her secretly, waiting for her to walk along the side. If we were to pass in the canteen or a corridor, she would straighten her back, push out her chest, lift her chin, and flick that long fair hair back to fix my attention, and only then would she look at me with such pride and power that I always lowered my eyes. I imagined a smile of satisfaction on her lovely face as she walked away. But this was not so. I know for sure, because, astonishingly, Melissa became my first lover, and she told me otherwise.

I explain all this because it needs explaining but also to demonstrate how clear I was in my own mind from the age of 14 or so that I liked girl's bodies and, by extension, girls. Horace, by contrast, developed a taste for lads. This appeared to happen to him without me knowing or suspecting. There was one day in the week, in the autumn term of our fourth year, when our last lesson was physical education. This meant that when the lesson was over there was no hurry to change. For some reason, Horace (who detested all sports except golf, and was never to be found in the gym or changing room outside set classes) and I chatted for longer than usual ­ no doubt about a forthcoming debate ­ before dressing. By the time we entered the shower room, it was empty apart from us. When Horace came so close he was rubbing shoulders, I moved away. When I looked round, I saw him holding his penis in one hand. It was erect. Maybe there were activities I had missed out on, but so far in my young life, I had not shared my erections with anyone, nor had I seen anyone else's.

'Give us a rub, Kip.'

'Get off.' Yet Horace was my best friend, and it wasn't easy to say no to him.

'Come on touch it, you'll like it.' I moved further away again, into the corner of the showers, and he followed. He stretched out one hand wanting to grab my penis. I pushed him way.

'No, I don't want to.' This was Horace as I had never seen him before. He pressed himself forwards, pinning me against the tiled wall.

'Come on Kip, what's the matter. You afraid.' He was trying to rub himself on my thigh. It may have been partly in jest, but I did not see the joke. I pushed him off and forced my way past him. I stopped before leaving the showers, and turned to say something, but he was too busy ­ with himself.

Horace prostrated himself before me, metaphorically that is, for days after, but I wouldn't listen to his protestations or to those of Jeff and one or two others who interceded on his behalf (without, I should add, knowing why). Our row, or rather my unilateral decision to end the friendship, was the talk of the middle school for several weeks. It took me months to recover. Horace was able to resume where we had left off as if nothing had happened. For my part, I was never able to fully trust him again. Looking back, I can see that it was only because I developed a respectful wariness of him that I was able to remain a close friend for so long.

***

Logically, I should move on now and talk about another important Witley bud, Alfred, and volleyball, but that's a happy story I want to employ as a bookend to this early chapter of my life. For the moment, I need to take the train six stops from Witley to Guildford, London Road station, and walk seven minutes to 121 Larch Rise. I usually caught a train around 6pm. Julie would know my schedule, and I would usually message her if I changed my plans. Occasionally, but not often, Tom would be at home when I arrived. Julie prepared supper for around 7pm, allowing Tom (if he was there) and I to catch Eastenders while Julie cleared up in the kitchen. This sounds unfair, but Julie preferred to keep the kitchen neat and tidy, especially during the week when we were all busy. She complained if we interfered. I did make her a cup of tea most nights, when she settled down to mark homework or listen to the radio. I'm not sure what Tom did around the house. He brought in more money than Julie, and he undertook handyman jobs when pestered. This was the general ordinary pattern for a year or so after I started at Witley Academic.

Shouting was not an uncommon occurrence in our house, as I've said, but things got worse in 2012 and came to a head in the summer of 2013. Tom had a short fuse. Julie had a way of moaning about petty things which were not important, and, as I grew close to adolescence, I developed a defensive habit of remaining silent, mute, which provoked and challenged both of them from time to time. The worst arguments by far, though, were those between Julie and Tom which ended with Julie weeping and locking herself in the bathroom, and Tom storming out of the house. Julie would tell me that he was out getting drunk. When these arguments occurred late at night, I would sense them first in a dream, with loud voices drifting through from far away and scaring me. Then I would linger for an unknown length of time, in the state between sleep and waking, desperately attempting to resist consciousness. As I describe this now, I realise the sensation is not dissimilar to that I used to have, as an aging man, of not wanting to recognise the signal of my bladder and the need to make the effort to rise and go to the toilet. (Now, in bed, I am permanently plumbed, without the fear of psychological or practical inconveniences, and so, when I wake in the night it is for other reasons.) As the volume of their voices ­ his crunchy, over-reliant on swear words, hers crisp, exasperated ­ ratcheted up, so I would bury my head under the pillow and press its sides into my ears. If a serious quarrel erupted during the day on a Saturday, I would travel into school; and, if on a Sunday, I would find a friend to visit. If I was lucky, Alan would be available.

I should mention my uncle Alan ­ Mr Abominable Snowman ­ at this point. Our moving to Guildford had coincided more or less with his temporary return to WWF's recently-expanded Godalming offices. He was always a busy man, never without a full diary, but he clearly had a soft spot for his sister and me, and so we saw him once every few weeks. Mostly, I enjoyed our walks on the North Downs, or along the Wey, or to the Waverley Abbey ruins or through some arboretum, with a visit to a teashop afterwards. Now and then all of us (including Tom) would take Sunday lunch in a pub. These meetings would often end in Tom and Alan arguing (I mean Tom arguing and Alan being calm and patient as ever), and me getting very bored. When Tom was away, Alan would come round and eat supper with us. More often than not, he would have a story to tell, about nuclear pollution in the Kola Peninsula, or developing the wetlands in Moldova, or a parrot in Borneo that had been saved from extinction, or the crooked empire of the oilserfs. There was a pattern to these evenings. While Julie cooked and prepared food Alan and I would talk, and then, through supper, the conversation would include Julie and start to lose me, so that as soon as I had finished my meal I would slip off to watch television. Then Alan would read to me for a few minutes before lights out. Later, once I was established at Witley Academic, it was not unusual for him to turn up at the school, and give me a lift home, or take me to his flat in Farnham, 20 kilometres away, for tea and cake and a chat. He also drew me into a team of volunteers which helped carry out environmental works on the marshy commons nearby. This was mostly cutting tree saplings, building and repairing board walks, and draining ditches. It was tiring work, to which I was not especially suited, but rewarding.

At the time, I did not know the underlying cause of the arguments between my parents, nor did I brood on them. In their own way, both Julie and Tom had tried to comfort me so many times when I was younger, that I no longer believed them. But I was not so numbed that I didn't cry, secretly, often. I would long for Tom to go away on a business trip, so the arguments would stop, and then I would long for him to come back, because I missed him. Unfortunately, I have no record of our emails from that time. It is my impression that we wrote a lot, and that this was fun, something I wanted to do. I rehashed Flip's shorter jokes and amusingly described the worst excesses of other teachers, and Tom talked of 'big deals' and 'big money' and 'very important people'. I would boast about his whereabouts to my friends ('my Dad's in China') and show them composite tourist pics (of him standing in Tiananmen Square, or climbing the Great Wall). Life was undoubtedly better when Tom was away: not only did I love him more then, but my mother and I got on so much better.

I do not wish to dwell too long on the summer of 2013. It was the time of the major Turkish riots in Germany and the shocking murder of the singer Vi Hoop by religious extremists in Utah. Tom's hopes of moving to Singapore or somewhere in the Far East was one open sore. Julie's wish to have a second child, and Tom's refusal to consider it, though, was the deep and underlying problem that had been festering between them for years. Both Julie and Tom confirmed this to me at different times and in different ways. I am sure Julie would have muddled through until I had gone to college but for Tom's increasingly brazen adultery. I suspect that Julie chose to ignore the signs, so long as they were not obvious. But that summer the evidence became far too strong, too pungent. Tom had picked up a venereal disease, which, under doctor's orders, he needed to tell Julie about. Then, a few days later, there was a nasty letter, a rant, addressed to Julie from Tom's current mistress in London. She had also been informed about Tom's problem, but naively, stupidly, she imagined Tom had caught the disease from his wife. However generously Julie assessed the situation ­ and I am using Tom's analysis here, the one he gave me on the Bangkok trip ­ she had no choice but to leave him.

That was a horrible, horrible day, the day the letter arrived, Wednesday 15 August. There was intermittent shouting and screaming, mostly by Julie. She wouldn't allow me to go out (presumably because she was already expecting to leave) and so I was forced to wear my earphones much of the time. Tom, in real distress, asked me twice to intercede on his behalf, which provoked an almost physical assault on him by Julie, for once completely aloof to what I might think of her. This in turn enraged Tom who began bellowing for his right to talk to his son. I went out to the garden, where I was embarrassed to find I, and the neighbours, could hear the shouting. Then it stopped, suddenly. An hour later, Julie and I were driving down the motorway to Parsonville. I think she hoped for sympathy from her mother, but she didn't get it. They argued non-stop too, only not in raised voices. One day later we were heading back to Farnham, to camp out at Alan's flat. Alan himself came and went for a few weeks, and then moved to Switzerland. I was more sad about my uncle's going away than about my parent's separation. We went back to Larch Rise of course. Before long, though, the property was sold. Julie and I moved to Godalming, and Tom rented a property in Bramley, five kilometres east of Godalming. (Some years later he bought himself a modern semi-detached monstrosity much closer to London, in Epsom.)

***

That summer was memorable for me in another far more positive way. In late July, before my mother's flight from Larch Rise, some of us from the Witley Academic volleyball club were recruited for ball collection and other duties at the European volleyball championships being held for the first time in the Guildford International Sports Complex. The two main auditoriums had been refurbished to provide championship grade courts (and changing rooms), comfortable seating and top-notch media facilities. There were three matches a day on each court for the mini-league phase during the first week. I fetched balls for two matches most days, and watched the third one. This was thrilling, not only because of the volleyball, which was of a standard I had never imagined (I was not yet so keen as to watch the sport on television), but because of the buzz of activity, the teams, the coaches, the support staff, the officials, and, most exciting of all, the media people.

I personally was interviewed by journalists from two broadcast companies, one from Croatia and one from Italy, about what it felt like to be a ball-boy at one of the most exciting matches of the year. It was a quarter-final between Italy and Croatia, and one of those titanic struggles that live in everyone's memory for years. At the time, I was standing too far back and was too focused on my job, watching and waiting for the ball, to follow the game and the drama closely, but so much was talked about the match, and written, that I soon absorbed the details: Italy lost five points because of a scoring error (almost unheard of at international level); one of the Croatians sustained a serious ankle injury; and there was a very rare disqualification (the referee finally lost patience with the Croatian captain who, having sought clarification after clarification of the umpiring decisions, would not accept the loss of a point that had given the Italians the fourth set and thus kept them in the game). There was also some of the most exciting volleyball you could imagine. The camrecording of that game was used for many years by coaches all over the world. How do I know? Because I was in it, and whenever in my adult life I met someone who had played volleyball at a high level, I would bring the talk round to Croatia-Italy 2013, and more often than not they would say their coach had shown it to their team. The recording has another place in my story, but I must come back to it at the right time.

How is it possible that after my whole life long, I can still sense a frisson of the excitement of being involved in that week. There were two rest days when I should have stayed at home with my mother but she was sulky and depressed because of the situation with Tom, so I lied to her about being committed to certain tasks. Instead, I spent the time watching the practice sessions, requesting autographs and then asking as many questions as players or officials or journalists would answer. I even knocked a ball around with one or two of the more easy-going international players. My one disappointment was not being selected to help with the final when Italy beat Spain, nor being allowed to watch in the auditorium, although I did see it on the live relay in the second auditorium. I did ball duties for one of the semi-finals (I don't recall who played, and I can't be bothered to search for the information). England, of course, disappointed. It was only 20 years later in Estonia, under the inspired and committed American coach John Buffer, that England finally made it to a European final. They didn't win then either, but it was a high for English volleyball.

All six of us (seven if you include our teacher/instructor) from Witley Academic that had been involved in the championship were deeply inspired to do better. Club nights became more disciplined, we started to spend time watching coaching films, and our instructor signed us up to play a number of friendly matches against other schools and groups. A year went by, we all got taller and slightly better; and then I recruited Alfred.

Alfred Ajose. He was a great man and a good friend. He died in Zanzibar during the Grey Years. I had an email from him the day before the accident, but I don't want to think about that one message now. I am remembering him as a young man of 13 at Witley Academic, one year younger than me, but eight centimetres taller. I had seen him in the playground, usually at the centre of a small band of other coloured pupils, and I'd heard he was the son of a Nigerian diplomat. He attracted serious attention, though, when he pinned a remarkable poster on the canteen noticeboard. It accused one of the teachers of unacceptable behaviour and of bad teaching, and it was signed. Alfred was immediately suspended; but, extraordinarily, he was reinstated without further punishment within a few days, and the teacher in question was dismissed. Later, I discovered that it had been the teacher's overt racism that had provoked Alfred into such risky action. Our headmaster must have been a wise man, for, having initially ignored protestations made by Alfred in private, he finally realised the truth of the matter; and decided that Alfred's actions had been more brave than subversive. Another pupil tried a similar approach a year or so later, and was severely punished.

It was a direct result of Alfred's notoriety that I found myself talking to him in the lunch queue. Because of his height, I suggested he join the volleyball club. To begin with, he proved awkward and gangly, as if unsure how to control his long limbs; and it took him nearly three months of training to gain a place in the team. I like to think that he persevered, despite being talented at many things and being much in demand, partly because he enjoyed training with me, but more importantly because I promised him he would be good. That I proved right about this was to leave him with an exaggerated impression of my intuition and foresight.

We both reached our full heights early. He achieved 190 centimetres, a useful size for a hitter, by the time he was 15, and I topped 180 centimetres, reasonable enough for a setter, by 16. For two years in a row, we won the national schools championship. My setting was certainly recognised as contributing to that success, yet it was Alfred's consistently accurate and uncanny hitting that took our team to the top. It was not only his practical skills that helped us to win, but also his captaincy. He knew instinctively when and how to be angry or sympathetic. He knew who would play worse if moaned at, but better if encouraged; and he knew who would raise his game if the fate of the team was suddenly thrust on his shoulders. Whereas our excellent coach taught and trained us, worked out our moves, planned our strategies, chivvied us along between sets and in time-outs, when in the thick of play on court, it was Alfred who gelled us.

And, as for the slapping of hands my father had referred to, that was how we expressed our joy at a good move, the combination of a good retrieve, a good pass and a good hit. Even as middle-aged men, departing from important meetings, Alfred, by then a more solemn person, and I would slap hands, perhaps in recognition of a result achieved, or more likely so as to revisit the intense pleasures of playing and of friendship in those days of youth.

EXTRACTS FROM CORRESPONDENCE
Julie Fenn to Alan Hapgood

October 2001

I must thank you for this computer. It has taken a while to get used to the new operating system, and the up-to-date software, but it's marvellous. Tom wanted to fiddle with it, but I told him sternly no ­ it's mine. He seems to have accepted that.

Will we never be rid of war. Everyone is waiting for the invasion of Afghanistan. I can't bear to listen to the news. I'd rather not write about it.

Neil has grown up so much in the last few weeks. He has such a range of facial expressions, and he can now use two and three word combinations. One of his favourite words is juice, he says it with such precision, it makes me laugh with joy.

Sometimes we sit together and say the alphabet. This has become a special game between us. He sits on my lap facing me. We look each other in the eyes. I say 'let's do the alphabet' and a smiling glint comes across his face. 'A', I say, and there is a long pause; he looks slyly at me, testing, watching, waiting; I say nothing and finally he says very softly 'A'. Then on we go through the letters of the alphabet, he can say most of them very well. If I say it loudly, he does too; if I whisper the letter, he whispers it too. When we get to the end, to 'Z', and we always do, for I never let him not finish, I give him a big kiss and we're both happy.

I was trying to think how I might possibly want him different, but he is perfect, adorable. Do all parents think this about their children? I can't believe so.

Alan, I don't like you being overseas in these turbulent times. When will we see you next?

August 2002

Tom and Neil and I have been in the Peak District for a week. I organised to stay at a B&B in Matlock Bath. The house was all pine, spick and span: pine furniture, pine doors, pine toilet-roll holder. The landlady gave us a front sunny room. Tom complained, accustomed as he is to five star international hotels. Breakfast on day one was a mite traumatic: I worried that Neil would spill egg down his front and on the cushion which the landlady had provided; I was concerned at the great fork he wielded in his left hand; and I worried about the volume of breakfast he stuffed away. But what a treat for him ­ chocoflakes, orange juice, egg, sausage and bacon, toast ­ all for breakfast. It's so long since you've been home, I bet you've forgotten the glories of an English breakfast.

On one walk we passed some lavender beds and I picked off a bit so we could all smell. Neil said, 'I like rosemary too; but I don't like black pepper'. When we saw a very old crippled man sitting on a bench by the river, Neil pointed to him and asked, in a very loud voice, 'Is he dead?'.

I have finally taught to him to shower, so that now he no longer cries when the water flows over his face. He grins and bears it. He does cry when soap goes in his eyes but I can easily divert him by asking him to shower my hand, or by pointing to his funny feet. Yesterday, he took Karshula (the name he has given to the panda you gave him) into the shower, which is a good sign.

May 2003

I haven't heard from you in a while, are you well? Is Monique in with a chance!

Neil has come along a treat. He is a beautiful child, with a charming spirit and an abundance of fun and joy in him. I think he is clever, but he has a general intelligence not any specific ability. He certainly displays a good memory and is already behaving in a conscious and calculating manner, mostly to the good. I must admit to being unbelievably in love: nothing has changed, tears come when I watch him sleeping.

Do you remember me telling you about the Peak District holiday? I have to pay for that now: Tom is insisting we all go to Monte Carlo for the Grand Prix. Why do I feel a headache coming on!

June 2003

All morning Neil was pretending to be a frog, and making strange frog-like noises. After lunch, he became a snake and is now crawling from place to place making sss sounds wherever he goes. Comfort toys have become important for him, and he invariably goes to bed with one of the pandas you've given him. But Karshula remains his favourite.

Yesterday, though, we had a difficult time. I became upset and angry because he wouldn't read something I knew he could. He tried to pretend he didn't know the words, and when I insisted he did, he started crying. Instead of comforting him, which I usually do when he cries, I shouted at him. And then, when I asked him to re-read some pages we had already covered, he suddenly couldn't read those either. And I got angrier. There is no doubt my behaviour was counter-productive. I was doing precisely the opposite of what I was setting out to do. Why am I telling you this?

Against all my expectations, we had a lovely time in Monte Carlo. How the rich do live!

I had a long talk on the phone with Mum. She's finally got a date for her hip replacement ­ October. It would be nice if you could manage a visit. She's become rather grumpy of late.

July 2003

I have stopped the reading lessons with Neil due to the difficulties I told you about before. They carried on, and his reading appeared to get worse. I have to make a real effort to remind myself he is not doing it on purpose in the way an adult does something deliberately. I must make it fun for him, or else there is no point. Meanwhile, he is proving to have an excellent aptitude for numbers so we do quite a lot of arithmetic and geometry. Before lights out last night, I showed him a photo of his nursery group. He names all the children and teachers for me. Then I ask him which of the children is the roughest, he says Jack; which of the children cries the most, Emile; which of the children laughs the most, Truman; and which of the children is the cleverest, 'me'. He chuckles. I read him a Noddy story. Minutes after turning the light out he is fast asleep.

August 2003

You wouldn't approve. I don't think I do. We went to the zoo last weekend. It was Tom's idea. Neil had a splendid time running from cage to cage and looking at giraffes, elephants, owls, flamingos, penguins and gorillas. We had a long chat about gorillas, and I explained how friends of yours were helping to make sure they could live safely in the wild. He was very impressed. But many of the animals looked in poor condition (emaciated, fur hanging off, apathetic) and the cages and pens were far too small.

I have been through the alphabet several times with Neil in recent days, and he now knows all the sounds of the letters, so I can say any one and he will say the right sound. Before a story this evening, I spelt out the sounds of C A T until he knew what the word was and then I said we were going to replace the C with an R, and we did the sounds until he got RAT and then we did the same with H and HAT. When I asked him if he could think of any more rhymes, he said 'BAT' straightaway. I am more and more convinced that the secret of good teaching, especially with really young children, is to keep their interest, to keep the subject fun. All these years, I've been a teacher, I suspected that was true, but I never really knew it. I do now.

Have you been reading about this Kelly business? I'm so confused I don't know what to think.

September 2003

We went to Malvern for a week. I hired a cottage this time, after Tom's complaints about the B&B. It was more work for me. One evening, we left Tom to watch the television and took a picnic up on the hills. It was such a lovely spot as the sun descended slowly in the west leaving its shine across the valley. Neil said it was like being in an aeroplane ­ The Malvern Aeroplane. And later he drew a colourful picture of it.

December 2003

I am glad you are coming home for Christmas. Will you stay with us for a few days, Neil would so love to see you. Mum is up and about, with a renewed lease of life. I pity her local Countrywide Campaigners group, she'll be launching all kinds of new efforts now.

Do you remember Thunderbirds and Dr Who. They are both showing again on television. Neil adores them.

September 2004

Neil has started school full-time, and he loves it. After his first day, I waited for him in the playground and when he didn't appear I walked into the classroom to find him hiding from me ­ he didn't want to go home. For a second, I felt acutely embarrassed.

September 2004

Neil became very upset this weekend because of Tom and I arguing and shouting. I am surprised how well he manages to exert pressure on us to make up. He moves from one to the other cuddling us, and if one of us refuses to do whatever we were going to do together (be it sit down to lunch or go out for a walk) he makes it very difficult to stay angry. Once, not this time but earlier, Tom was sitting down for a meal and I was getting the food out of the oven, and we had all calmed down. Neil quizzed Tom asking him, 'Do you think Mummy is a wonderful mummy?' I heard Tom answer, 'Yes, I think she is wonderful Mummy.' Then Neil said, 'But is she a wonderful Mummy to you?' Tom didn't answer. Then Neil said, 'But do you think she is a wonderful woman?' He said it so urgently, so sweetly, so tenderly, that I stopped what I was doing and gave them both a hug. He's growing so tall, I wish you were here to see him ... us more often. I've attached a photo.

October 2004

We are reading another Dahl story ­ The BFG. It is wonderful and captivates Neil. He has remembered and learned a number of good jokes and adores hearing new ones especially those that make a play on words which he understands. Here is his favourite from a new joke book I bought him yesterday: Who is the boss of the hankies? The Hankie Chief. He told and retold the joke a dozen times to us in the car. Other favourites are: Where do cows go on holiday? Moo York. What do frogs drink? Croak a cola. And he made this one up today: Knock knock; who's there? Car; Car who? Karshula!

January 2005

Dear Uncle Alan ­ thank you for the wildlife book. I like all the pictures of the pandas. Have you ever seen bamboo? I have, in our garden.

January 2005

Neil's birthday passed in a feast of presents, activities, cakes and colours. He was a darling all day. Not long after dawn, he came into our bed all soft and quiet. When I asked him if he wanted to open his presents, he smiled coyly and said 'yes'. He started slowly trying to examine each one but after a while he found it impossible not to speed up, there was always another present to run and get: a construction set (racing car designs!), which is far too old for him; a Thunderbirds model to make; some clay modelling material (from guess who!); a box of magic tricks; and the book you so thoughtfully managed to courier in good time.

Yes, Mum came to stay over Christmas and was so annoying that when Tom shouted at her, I gave up a silent prayer of thanks. It's not only her sergeant major ways, it's the fact that she can't stop preaching to me about politics. It's difficult to know whether to blame the Tory party members like Mum, or the Tory party itself, but it seems to be so far to the right, it'll never find its way back towards the middle ground. Commentators are already predicting the Lib-Dems could do much better at the next elections, and that would be good for schools.

April 2005

Tom is away for three weeks, in the Far East I think. I don't care.

I have moved on to the multiplication tables with Neil and he is making good progress. I am anxious, not that he learns the answers necessarily but that he sees and knows the patterns, that he understands that seven times three is the same as adding up three seven times or seven three times. I have also been teaching him to count in twos and to understand the difference between odd and even numbers, both of which are different versions of the two times table. Why do I tell you all this?

Blair looks like getting back in. I won't begrudge him victory if does, though I'll vote for the Lib-Dems as usual. Mum's fuming, she thinks I, personally, am to blame for the failure of the Tories.

Guess what? I've been made deputy head, did I say. It means more money and paperwork, but slightly less teaching.

I was sad to hear you and Monique have split up, but I do understand how difficult the distance made things. Won't it always be a problem for you, unless you decide to slow down, settle down?

August 2005

We went on our own to Snowdonia this summer. Tom was away again. I loved being out and about on the hills. Neil is real trooper. He never complained once on our walks. When we came to forested parts, he was full of half-serious fears about ghouls and goblins, all stemming from the Tarquinade stories you read him last time you were here.

May 2006

While Tom was trying to mix a cocktail on the sideboard this evening, I was sitting at the kitchen table reading the news (dreadful floods in Eastern Europe ­ is this the kind of thing you've been warning about?). Neil climbed up on one of the chairs, and asked Tom if he could have a climb. He used to do this a lot, but he's bigger and heavier now, and Tom has been trying to discourage his toddler behaviour. A few days ago, Tom claimed a success in that Neil had climbed up onto his shoulders, Tom had remained absolutely lifeless and silent, and Neil had eventually climbed down out of boredom. This time, however, there was a twinkle in his eye and he was trying to suppress a grin. 'Don't look in my pocket,' he said to Tom. Tom turned to shrug him off, and Neil said, 'Oh darn it' or similar (he's full of family cartoon expressions such as 'yippee' and 'yummee'). Tom then saw that he had a mini-book in his trouser pocket and pointed it out. Neil played up to him with a guilty smirk. We all laughed when we twigged that his ingenious plan was to take a book up with him so he wouldn't get bored at the top.

Sometimes I love him so much I want to weep and weep with happiness, or take him in my arms and never let him go. Maybe that's why ­ you did ask ­ I cannot get too anxious about the absence of any real relationship with Tom. Don't be fooled by the cute domestic scene above. We had a row a few minutes ago.

January 2007

Mum gave Neil an expensive fountain pen for his birthday. He broke it within 24 hours; and when I got angry with him he went mute. I'd never seen him like that before. Later in the morning, he came up to me and said, 'Mummy, you know you said I was under a cloud, well there it is,' and he pointed above his head, 'and now it's raining, and now the cloud's gone away. Is that all right Mummy.' Sweet child. I made him write an apology to Grandma.

Is it really possible that peace will come to Palestine now ­ it's difficult to believe. We have had the hardest coldest December I can ever remember.

From Hungary to Russia! I loved your descriptions of Siberia (I have read them to Neil, and he wants to go. Beware, you're becoming a hero. He needs to see you more often or else the reality may be disappointing! So do I.) But are the environmental problems so bad, you make it sound heaven and hell all rolled into one?

March 2007

Neil continues to grow up into the most delightful boy. He has intelligence, strong features (at certain angles, he looks like you); he is sporty and competitive, but not too much; he is never bored at home and responds as well to being given things to do as to finding things to do on his own (mostly reading). Recently, he has learned to ride a bicycle and to tie his shoelaces (but not at the same time!).

I've been reading a fascinating new book called The Snowball Effect or Parenting made Difficult by Julia Derwent, an American Professor. I don't know how fresh the ideas are, but I've never read anything similar. She explains in layman terms what we know about the complex interactions between nature (genes) and nurture (environment), but then argues that early random influences ­ in the first year or two or three of a child's life ­ can have a much more profound influence than has ever been recognised. In essence, she argues that an event which appears benign in itself at the time can lead a child into behaving in a certain way, which then leads to the original event or pattern to be repeated and the reinforcement of the behavioural response ­ thus, the snowball effect. She cites fascinating studies of twins brought up together, showing how some develop very different characters, a fact which cannot be explained by their genes or their environment. She also sees a link between this analysis and several childhood development problems. She suggests, very controversially, that over-attentive parents can sometimes lead very young children into certain kinds of resistances, to foods, for example, or learning to speak or read, and that these resistances can then develop and enlarge, like a small ball of snow gently rolling downhill. She does, though, pull the analogy up sharp and insist that once formed a child's behaviour patterns cannot be broken up and remoulded like a snowball. Quite the reverse. The book only came to my attention because of the media furore, but I know from personal experience with Neil how close I came to forcing on him too much teaching at too early an age. God knows what damage we teachers do in class, although, according to Derwent, much of a child's character is already determined by the time he or she starts school (even if, according to the snowball effect theory, this might not yet be apparent), and any characteristics that are likely to change significantly during school years will do so in response to peer pressure rather than what teachers (or parents for that matter) do or say. She has quite a lot to say about this too.

I do go on so, don't I.

Your birthday is coming up, are there any books you need/want?

Oh, and I nearly forgot to tell you, Tom proposed we move to Singapore for a few years. Over my dead body, I said. He stormed out.

June 2007

I am making an extra effort at present with Neil's teaching at home. There have been personnel changes at his school which leave him less interested in class work. But he enjoys his home lessons. However, I will not be able to keep up this level of attention as Neil grows older, nor will I have the knowledge to keep his learning well directed. I am pinning my hopes on moving him to a better school, possibly next year, but we may also move if Tom decides to change jobs.

Have you ever been to Brazil? I can't remember. There was this glorious ten part series on the television. It's just finished. I watched it with Neil. The first programme on the Amazon hooked us, and then there were others about the Cerrado, for example, the country's history, and carnival (why are we so boring in this country, Neil wanted to know!).

We spent a lot of time on the commercially-oriented internet site, and, guess what, Neil persuaded me to order him lots of Brazilian posters. I helped him take down crinkled torn photos of the moon that Tom had pinned up years ago, and put up the new ones. But, by the next weekend, Tom had bought a huge poster of that Brazilian driver ­ whatever his name ­ who won the Grand Prix circuit last year, and another one of the car he drove, and helped Neil rearrange all the posters to make room for them. Neil tries to be fair about these things.

So, stranger, you are finally coming home for good. I'll believe it when I see it, when I see you, here.

October 2007

Uncle Alan. Mummy says you should be coming home by now. I hope you are not cold in Siberia. Mummy says you might be interested in my Dodge Book.

1) Get away from homework. Build a passage out of the window, and rope down. If there is no window try and burst the door in. 2) Excuses to teachers for not doing homework. I dropped it in the bin on the way to school. The wind blew it out of my hand. I did it, but when I turned it over it was gone. I used a piece of wood as paper, but Dad threw it on the fire. I suddenly went deaf at exactly the moment the teacher told us about the homework.

Next time you go to Siberia can I come, Mr Abominable Snowman?

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Paul K. Lyons

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