'I generally prefer the ones who can talk,' he says. 'They are so very much more interesting. But if you wish me to distract the child, I'm willing to try. After all, a cat may look at a king.'

'Mrs Mac won't thank you for interfering,' says Hannah impudently, but I glare at her and she drops her eyes and says, 'Beg pardon for speaking out of turn.'

John is game to try his hand, though, and so we mount the stairs up to the nursery. The sobs and cries become louder, and Mrs McQueen's injunctions for Benjamin to 'be a good boy' also increase in volume.

'Dear, dear,' says John, as we go up the final winding flight. 'What a pair of lungs! How do you manage to sleep at night?'

'Sometimes we don't,' I say. 'We are often tired and frazzled these days. That's why we sometimes say things we don't mean to our very best friends.'

'Oh, we should all say what we mean. Even though we may not always mean what we say.' He laughs.

I open the door. 'Mrs McQueen,' I say. 'I have brought Mr Jameson to entertain Benjamin.'

I haven't been up to the nursery since the night of the accident, and I'm shocked at the change in it. It had always seemed to me such a cosy place, with its big bra.s.s fender winking in the firelight, and its little table always laid with a pretty flowered cloth and cheerful cups and bowls. I remember Evelina and I watching here all night when Sarah had influenza, and praying over her when I thought she was lost to us. I remember Nettie's quiet, bustling presence through the small hours, her calm voice, her antic.i.p.ation of our every need, the way she kept the kettle singing on the hob, soaking cloths in hot water and then cold, lifting the child's head to soothe her brow and, once the fever had broken, tempting her with chicken broth. The room has the same furnishings, the same beds and chairs and crockery, but somehow it has lost its heart. It reminds me more of a barracks beds neatly made, floor neatly swept, everything orderly, but nothing to raise the spirits.

Mrs McQueen rises as we come in. She has been sitting at the side of the cot where Benjamin lies in a bundle of tangled sheets, looking hot and sweaty. 'Reverend Baxter! I'm sorry if you've been disturbed. I've been trying my best to stop his noise. But I think he may have a bit of a fever.'

I'm alarmed. 'Fever? Why wasn't I told of this?'

'It's only just come on, sir, and, even now, I'm not sure if it isn't just his temper. He gets himself in a state sometimes and you just have to let him cry it out. I didn't want to worry Mrs Baxter for no reason. I like to get on with things myself, and she Mrs Baxter, that is trusts me to do so. My methods have been pretty good up to now and no one has ever found fault with me so far. The Lindemanns and the Crawleys were quite '

'Enough!' I know the woman came with excellent references, but now is not the time for self-justification. I go to the cot. Benjamin casts weary eyes at me. He isn't crying any longer; he looks as if he has lost hope. I stroke his cheek. It is hot and damp. His hair sticks to his scalp and he seems to have tiny white pimples all over his skin. 'I think we should call Dr Lawrence,' I say.

'You must do what you think right, of course,' she says, making it clear that she is not of that opinion.

'Indeed, I will do exactly that, Mrs McQueen,' I say, my anger rising. 'This is my house and you are my servant and Benjamin is my son.' I turn to Hannah, who has followed us up the stairs, ready no doubt to witness any discomfiture on the part of Mrs Mac. 'Please run to Dr Lawrence immediately,' I say, and she is off like a shot, picking up her skirts almost to the knee as she gallops down the stairs, showing a flash of her black-stockinged calf and the undersides of her white petticoat.

As she goes, I spy Daisy poking her head around the corner of the landing below. She has on her straw hat and cotton gloves. Her face is full of alarm. 'What's the matter, Papa? Is Benjy ill?'

'I hope not. He may just be hot and bothered. It's very warm today. But I don't wish to take the slightest risk.'

She runs up the stairs. 'Oh, let me see him!'

'I think there's quite enough people milling about in this room now,' says Mrs McQueen. 'I'd be obliged if Daisy stays downstairs, if it's not too much to ask.'

But Daisy is already in the room and has Benjamin in her arms, his hot cheek against her pale one. Benjamin seems to rally at the sight of her and gives a little smile. 'There!' she says. 'He likes to see me. He misses me. Don't you, dear?' She looks up at me, her hat askew. 'I don't have to leave him, do I?'

'Of course not,' I say. 'It seems you do him good. You'd do anybody good.'

'If it's anything catching, I won't be held responsible,' says Mrs McQueen. 'That's the first law of nursery life; isolate any child that's ill or you'll have sickness right through the house.'

'Considering that until a few moments ago you didn't even feel it necessary to inform Mrs Baxter or myself, I think you are being over-particular,' I say. 'Daisy may stay if she wishes. I will take the responsibility.'

'Oh, thank you, Papa!' And she lifts Benjamin's face to hers and kisses him over and over. He grasps a strand of her fringe and seems to be considering what it is that is different about his sister's looks today.

John has been very quiet during all the fuss. 'I think I had better go,' he says. 'Clearly my outing with Daisy is forfeit for today and I doubt I could do better than she has done in calming Benjamin. I hope it is nothing serious, Daniel. I myself have a horror of fever and am no good about the sickbed.'

I could see that he was anxious to depart. 'Yes, John, please feel free to go.'

'Please send word if there is any development. I will come myself tomorrow to see if there is anything I can do. Take care of your brother, Daisy!' And he is gone.

'Is that the gentleman as saved him from drowning?' asks Mrs McQueen.

'Yes,' I reply. 'The very same.'

'They say that the person you save will do you a bad turn later on in life.'

'You mean Benjy will do a bad turn to Mr Jameson?' asks Daisy in horror.

I am furious with the woman. 'I believe that is an old seaman's tale, Mrs McQueen, and I don't countenance such superst.i.tion in this house. Benjamin will do nothing bad to Mr Jameson, either now or later.'

Daisy is aghast. 'But I opened my parasol in the house, Papa and look what happened that day!'

'What happened that day was entirely due to Nettie's lack of supervision.' My heart recoils to think that the child may have been blaming herself all this time. 'And it was G.o.d's grace that John Jameson was among us that day, and his quick action was directed from Above.'

Daisy doesn't look at me as she busies herself diverting her brother with the ribbons on her hat, but says, 'Why was it Nettie's fault that Benjy fell in, but G.o.d's grace that he was saved?'

I hesitate.

'Fie, child!' Mrs McQueen interposes. 'You have to go by what's in the Bible. You, of all children, should know that.'

I ignore her, and address Daisy. 'We know it was G.o.d's grace because Benjamin being saved was a good thing, and all good things come from G.o.d.'

'But why did G.o.d allow him to fall in the first place?' She still doesn't look at me.

Why indeed? Why is there death and accident and sickness and misery and unbelief? If G.o.d loves us, why do we not all dwell perpetually in the Garden of Eden in perfect bliss and naked innocence? Why did G.o.d let ugly Sin slip in and d.a.m.n us for ever? If G.o.d is both omnipotent and good, we can only hope there is a larger purpose in His permitting the suffering we see around us; that the temptations and deprivations of this life are there to strengthen us and make us fitter for Heaven. I do not believe it, though. Like Benjamin, I am slipping into dark water, but in my case, there is no one to haul me up. I want to cry out in anguish, but I can't: Daisy is waiting for her answer. I call up the familiar words. 'We fall because of our own actions, my dear, the sin that is born in us and stalks us day and night throughout our lives. But we are saved by the love of Christ.'

'Is everyone saved?' She gives me the most transparent of looks and I can hardly bear to hold her gaze.

'Everyone who has faith,' I say.

She nods as if she is satisfied and, in her satisfaction, I gain a kind of peace. The child is good for me. She takes me back to a better time. If I take her spiritual education in hand, she may indeed save my soul.

11.

JOHN JAMESON.

Every time I see Daisy, I feel twenty years younger and twenty-five years happier. She has only to walk towards me and I am back in the golden time of my own childhood; a time when the dull concerns and expectations of the adult world did not impinge; when choices were simple, when learning was easy and faith ran through my body as easily as my own blood. Of course, it is the perverse way of things that none of us appreciates our happiness until it is taken away. Had I known then what I know now, and had I had it in my power to stop the clock once I had arrived at the age of fourteen, I would have done so without a second thought. Childhood, as I had experienced it up to that time, was complete enchantment. Manhood, as it came rushing upon me, seemed a dreadful, tragic joke.

I'd been a good-looking boy indeed I'd often been mistaken for a girl; but as soon as I had entered the adolescent state, I'd endured a sad falling-off in my good looks. Overnight, it seemed, the top of my head set sail for the ceiling and my neck had to stretch up after it. My feet suddenly seemed a long way down and my hands became awkward appendages that seemed to have lost connection with my arms, so that the simplest of tasks (like putting on a waistcoat or b.u.t.toning my boots) made me into a b.u.mbling idiot. My hair lost its softness and became lank and straggling, and my voice was not to be relied upon, which (added to the stammer that already afflicted me) made me frequently prefer not to speak at all. I could hardly believe what was happening; I felt as though I were no longer myself. 'You are just growing, dear,' said my mother when I complained of the changes. 'You'll be a fine young man in no time.' But I did not feel fine. I felt clumsy and ugly and ridiculous. If that was what growing up was all about, I wanted none of it.

And then, one day, to my absolute horror, I found that I had hair in places where no hair had been before. I cannot say what dread and shame I suffered at this discovery. I felt that I had become a kind of Caliban half-man, half-beast and wondered what I had done to be so afflicted. I fell to my prayers with increased fervour, asking forgiveness day and night. But my body continued to change in ever more disgusting ways and I feared that I might be eternally cast out from G.o.d's love. And then, as if all these torments were not sufficient, I became aware, for the first time in my life, of my own odour. However rigorously I washed myself, it was never enough, and I was forced to change my small complement of shirts as often as three times a week. Washday could never come quick enough and, in my eagerness to don fresh linen, I was often guilty of wearing it unaired, fearful that otherwise all might sense the smell of growing boy. I began to avoid anything that might bring me in contact with those I did not know, withdrawing from simple handshakes and eschewing physical closeness in any form, even shrinking a little from the embraces of my parents. Parish tea parties were anathema, particularly if I were given a seat near the fire; and even in church I hesitated to raise my eyes in case they encountered someone to whom I should be obliged to speak later. Old ladies, I found, were the very devil to avoid, and every Sunday, at Morning Service, I spent much of the time I should have been attending to my prayers working out ways to exit the congregation before they had time to waylay me.

At that time, my father was my sole teacher, and we had thoroughly enjoyed the many hours we spent together with our books, breaking off only if he needed to attend to his parish duties or reprimand the little ones if they were careering about too loudly in the flagstoned pa.s.sage outside. And once we had completed our set tasks in algebra and geometry and translated the appropriate pages of Latin and Greek, he simply followed his preference as to what we would study next. He was not by instinct a sedentary man and by no means a sedentary teacher and almost every day we set forth on a voyage of exploration in the fields and lanes of the parish, examining flowers in the hedgerows, bending to observe fish in the streams, finding birds' nests, capturing b.u.t.terflies and moths, sketching the shapes of clouds, and generally watching the unending panorama of the seasons. He particularly liked reciting pa.s.sages from the Christian Year and relating it to what we could see from our own vantage-points on high ground. 'All this, John!' he would say, turning in a great circle with his stick upraised. 'All this shows us the might and power of the Creator! Does your heart not leap up when you behold such grandeur?'

'Yes, Father,' I would say. I often tried to reproduce, with my pencil and watercolours, the clouds and the hills, and the distant river flowing down to the sea; but when it came to finding the words to describe the scene, my mind would instantly come up with some irreverent line about tea trays in the sky, or turtles singing at twilight. I never spoke the lines aloud, of course. It was not that my father was a solemn man indeed he often made play with words, saying every Sunday lunchtime, 'Mary-Ann, where's the boast reef?' or 'Why have custard when you can have mustard?' and he'd always written comic sentences in the margins of my work to lighten the task in hand but G.o.d's creation was not a subject to be jested about.

But about a month before my fourteenth birthday, when we were about to set out on one of our expeditions, my father laid his hand on my shoulder (which was already almost of a height with his own) and said that I was so far outstripping him in my skill in philosophy and mathematics that I needed a better tutor than he. 'You are also too much among women,' he said. 'You need to experience the rougher habits of young men if you are to succeed in life. You have had a gentle upbringing in this house and one that I approve of. But the generality of men in this world will come to judge you far harder than I, and certainly more than your sisters or your mother do.'

He thought I was in danger of becoming a milksop whereas I was afraid of the opposite; that the turmoil of pa.s.sions within me might break out at any time. My peaceful child-body was no more. In its place, a loathsome, clammy, hirsute creature, which began to intrude itself on me at the very time I hated it most. But I would not submit to it. I prayed even harder, and spent even longer at my books, where I found the rigours of mathematics helped free my mind from vile alternatives. In between times I helped my mother and sisters as always, reading with them, making up spelling games, checking their arithmetic, and devising poems and puzzles that amused us for hours. I invented a folding pin-holder for Mary and a little bird-feeder for Ruth's canary. I never pa.s.sed a moment in idleness, and exhausted my body by giving endless piggy-back rides along the pa.s.sageway to the kitchen, playing numerous games of skittles in the dining room with the rug rolled back, turning skipping ropes on the gra.s.s for what seemed like an eternity, and hopping in the hopscotch chalked out in the kitchen yard (where I, with my long legs, was always p.r.o.nounced the victor). As ever, I was looked to as the arbiter in my sisters' petty disagreements, and was required to compensate the injured parties with kisses and sweetmeats. In those two months before I was sent away, antic.i.p.ating the loss of my dearest company, I felt most strongly the true wonder of being a brother and so beloved a brother, too. When I looked at my sisters playing so trustingly with each other and approaching me with such sweet confidence, putting their chubby arms around me or lifting their faces to be kissed, I could not imagine how any gross and putrid thoughts could ever cross their innocent minds. Their company was my only consolation, and the sole means by which my inner demons could be subdued.

But inevitably the day came when my father told me to prepare my books and belongings, as my place at boarding school had been secured. Milburn House was at the other end of the county and had a good reputation for educating the sons of clergymen, but I was in dread of what awaited me. I knew remarkably little of other boys. I had always been somewhat shunned as a playfellow by the sons of the parish in spite of our being obliged to sit together in the choir every Sunday and say our catechism in unison once a week. They were all robust, red-faced Cheshire boys who seemed to find it hard to stay still for more than five minutes, and had funds of catapults, stones and horse chestnuts in their pockets which they brought out to admire at low points during the service and always covered up when they saw me look fearful, no doubt, that I would tell tales. My only triumph with them had been when I played the part of St George in a Christmas mummer play and added comic dialogue of my own to make it more amusing. For a few brief days I was popular. But I never pursued my advantage or sought to ingratiate myself. I did not need friendship outside the family. I had all the companionship I wanted within it.

So it was with a heavy heart that I accompanied my father on the stagecoach to Chester, whence we were to travel on to Milburn. When I saw the diminishing sight of my mother and sisters as they waved us off at the parsonage gate, I wished that I could weep half as openly as they; but I knew Father would see it as confirming my milksop ways, so I simply stared out of the window feeling like the prince in the fairy tale who had iron bands placed about his heart.

In Chester we were met at the Feathers by a servant in a pony and trap, and within another half-hour we had arrived at our destination: a pleasant brick house with very tall and elaborate chimneys. I remember thinking that they were not the kind of chimneys you would want to get stuck in if you were a chimney sweep or anyone else for that matter. The headmaster, Dr Lloyd, to whom I was introduced in a small drawing room with an exceedingly large fire, reminded me of a stork, and throughout our conversation I half expected him to fly up the flue and make a nest at the top. He was kindly enough as he explained the rules, but everything he said had to do with 'boys' and 'masters' and I felt I could never be happy in a place with so little female company.

'Our aim,' he said, stooping low and seeming to flap his wings at me, 'is to develop the mind and to turn out Christian gentlemen. However you may shine in your studies, you will be judged above all by the quality of your character. I hope, John Jameson, that you will not be found wanting in that respect, and that you will be a credit to your family.'

'I will,' I said. Then, seeing my father take up his hat in preparation for departure, a terrible sense of desolation gripped me and, in spite of my fourteen years and my sixty-eight inches of height, I allowed some tears to drop down my cheeks.

My father looked embarra.s.sed, and Dr Lloyd somewhat taken aback. 'Dear dear,' he said. 'I think a little firmness is called for now. A little manliness, too. This won't do at all. No, no, not at all. I suggest you stop this now before the other boys see you or you will have no reputation with them.'

I was used to making efforts of will, and I made a supreme effort then, breathing slowly and drawing myself up to my full height. 'I'm sorry, sir. I'm sorry, Father. I'll be strong from now on, I p-promise.'

My father came towards me. 'Let me be proud of you, John. Let me have good reports of you in every way. Now, G.o.d bless you and keep you.' And he pressed two half-crowns into my hand and was gone. I watched through the old-fashioned window as the pony and trap disappeared out of the gateposts, and Dr Lloyd, myself and the roaring fire were all that was left of my world.

Dr Lloyd then took me quickly up the stairs and introduced me to a boy of about the same age, somewhat shorter and plumper, whom he said was to be my 'pair'. He was called Frank Haywood and seemed of a very amiable disposition. He, too, was a clergyman's son, but had been at the school for two years already and had a fund of good advice as to the various 'dodges' it was necessary to employ in dealings with boys and masters alike. 'If you are the proud possessor of a florin or a half-crown, I'd advise you to keep quiet about it,' he said, opening the small bedside cupboard into which all my clothes were to go. 'We're all pretty skint at this time in the term and any new boy turning up is sure to attract attention as an easy source of revenue.'

I'd never heard the word 'skint', although I guessed what it meant. It was the first of many lessons I learned that day, not just about the prevalence of slang in the society of schoolboys, but also about the importance of keeping things to myself and not presuming on the good nature of others. 'I don't mind sharing what I've g-got,' I said, conscious of my stammer and fearing he would mock me for it.

'Well, Jameson, old fellow,' he said, putting his arm on mine. 'You may be ten feet tall, but you're pretty green. It's a good thing I'm here to look after you. You almost had Munnings as your study pair, but he's a complete toad, and the moment I saw you get out of the pony-trap I gave him tuppence to swap with me.'

'That's very g-good of you,' I said.

'Not at all,' he said airily. 'Although if you could see your way to giving me back the tuppence in due course, I'd be very obliged. I'm down to my last halfpenny.' And he looked at me with a very comical face, and we both laughed.

'Now for the clincher. Do you like riddles, Jameson?' he said, sitting on my bed and taking a piece of paper from his pocket.

'Oh, indeed,' I said. Riddles were a favourite family pastime and I warmed to the idea of starting out in my new friendship by solving this one.

'This is an easy one. Why is a raven like a writing desk?' he asked.

Why indeed? I cudgelled my brains for a good five minutes, but could not think of an amusing point of comparison. 'I g-give up,' I said at last, annoyed with myself for this failure.

He chortled, threw himself back on the counterpane and said I was quite right as I'd have to be 'raven mad' to know the answer. I laughed too, knowing at a stroke that I had found a soulmate, and that my schooldays might not be as bad as I had feared.

I never ceased to long for home, but my experiences at the school were salutary in several ways. The main benefit, of course, was the advanced nature of the studies. There were two young masters newly come down from Oxford, who introduced me to mathematical concepts that my poor father had no knowledge of. It was exciting to discover the principles behind Euclid's geometry, rather than merely learning them by rote, and I could not wait to be back at my desk each day, fathoming out new problems and solutions. Most of my cla.s.smates seemed content to go about matters in the old way, but I was fired with the joy of discovery and I was soon in high favour with my masters for going beyond the tasks they set me. It was comforting to hear my teachers speaking so well of me and knowing that good reports were going back to my father and mother.

I'd also been mightily relieved to discover, on meeting the other boys, that they were by no means the beauteous young G.o.ds of my antic.i.p.ation. On the contrary, they were in general rumpled, soiled and greasy individuals who seemed so happy in this state of dirty moistness that they hardly bothered to change their linen, and seemed to comb their hair only once a day before morning prayers when Dr Lloyd made his inspection. I was a paragon of freshness by comparison, and I began to entertain a higher opinion of myself than before.

I also learned, rather more slowly, that in addition to the slovenly nature of their outward appearance, there was much that was low in the inner thoughts of boys, and much that was impure in their conduct. What surprised me most was how little they attempted to hide it. I was horrified to find drawings of unclothed females, crudely labelled, circulating from hand to hand in the dormitories, and even more horrified when the act of procreation was similarly travestied. I averted my eyes when these images pa.s.sed near my sphere of vision, wondering how the sons of clergymen could have so little regard for the holiness of G.o.d's image in human form. As a result I gained the reputation of a prude, and was mocked accordingly. But, if it prevented me having to look at such sickening pictures, I was happy to be so mocked. Munnings, thinking perhaps that I would bring the matter to Dr Lloyd's attention, held his penknife hard against my wrist and made me swear never to divulge what I had seen. 'I do not even wish to think about it,' I replied. 'Such things are loathsome to me, as they should be to you.' But a thing once seen remains in the mind, and sometimes I hated myself for allowing my thoughts to dwell for the briefest moment on what I had glimpsed, and experiencing the old, tormented feelings such glimpses had aroused. I could not imagine how love pure, innocent, warm and holy love could descend to such carnal couplings. And yet it had to be so. My father and mother had conceived eight children. We had not arrived on the wings of the wind.

But the best thing about Milburn was undoubtedly Frank Haywood. He was less p.r.o.ne to grossness than the others, and laughter bubbled up in him at every opportunity. He encouraged the lighter side of my nature and we spent all our recreation time making up silly rhymes and even sillier jokes. Naturally our schoolmasters were the b.u.t.t of most of our juvenilia and each one was given the name of a bird or animal Dr Lloyd being the stork as I had first imagined him, Mr Molloy (who had long and crooked teeth) a crocodile, Mr Walsh (with wild and wobbling eyes) a lobster, and Mr Melville (slow of pace) a tortoise. We kept pieces of paper in the leaves of our exercise books and created comical verses about them which we pa.s.sed about under our desks. Frank would always start me off, and I would add the second line. I also shared with Frank the private language I had made up for my family magazine, and we would shout out 'brillibox!' if we found a solution to a problem or 'stormish!' if we made an unexpected run at cricket. We found this all highly amusing and the fact that the rest of the school found it highly annoying only encouraged us more.

But, in spite of his readiness to laugh, and in spite of his rotund appearance, Frank was a boy who was p.r.o.ne to the very serious matter of falling in love. One time he mooned for a whole term over Dr Lloyd's pretty niece who came on a day visit, dressed in blue. And then he became enamoured of the bootboy's sister, followed by the gardener's daughter. He often bought little presents for them a handkerchief, or a bit of ribbon which is why he was so often 'skint'. In our second year of friendship he fell in love with the bold, brown girls who sold apples and nuts in the village. He was always talking about them and writing love poems, which I enjoyed lampooning.

'Isn't it awful that we'll both have to wait so long?' he said one day as we took a walk in the walled garden, attempting to memorize lines from Pliny's account of the Punic Wars.

'Wait for what?' I said, my mind on the tribunes and the senate and the lack of foresight they were showing.

'Marriage and you know all that goes with it.'

'I hadn't thought,' I replied, truthfully. Marriage was something that I had never allowed myself to contemplate. The possibility seemed a hundred years away.

'Don't you? I think about it all the time,' he said gloomily. 'In fact, I'm afraid I might actually die of love before I have chance to find a wife.'

'No one dies of love. It's a p-pathetic fallacy.'

'I might be the first case. I'll go down in the medical books and my name will live for ever: Haywood's Melancholy Disease of the Heart. They will paint pictures of me on my deathbed!'

'You'll survive. Everyone does. And you'll marry in G.o.d's good time.' Frank had such an easy-going, loving nature that I was sure that would be the case.

He stopped in his tracks. 'You're very cool, I must say. My father was a curate for a dozen years before he got a Living and enough money to marry. That's twelve years added on to, say, three at Oxford and I've still two more here at school. Seventeen years, Jameson! Seventeen years living like a monk! Seventeen years seeing beautiful girls dance about in front of you and knowing you can't touch them or kiss them or anything really. And it might be longer!'

'And it might be shorter too. You have to consider the law of averages.'

'What's average, then? How old is your father?' he asked, somewhat belligerently.

'Fifty-six,' I said sheepishly.

'And you are sixteen. So he was almost forty when he married. I can't imagine waiting until I'm forty to do the deed. It's bad enough thinking about it.'

I'd always avoided thinking about it. 'Things will happen when they will. There's no p-point in tormenting oneself. Now let me get on with P-Pliny.'

'Pliny? Pliny? I give up on you sometimes, John.' Then his voice took on a teasing note. 'I don't think you've even tried to kiss a girl, have you?'

'Well, have you?' I retorted, recalling that his pa.s.sions had so far been unrequited.

'Yes, I have.' He looked at me triumphantly. 'I kissed my cousin, Jane Freeman, last Christmas during hide-and-seek. She had very soft, cushiony sort of lips. She was cushiony everywhere, in fact. I thought about her all the holiday.' He adopted the dreamy look I knew so well.

'Well,' I said, emboldened. 'I kiss my sisters all the time. And there are seven of them.'

'Oh, sisters don't count.'

'And cousins do?'

'Of course. You can marry your cousin, but not your sister.'

It occurred to me that if kissing my sisters was delightful, perhaps kissing a cousin or a sweetheart would be even better. Of course, I had not yet met anyone outside my family whom I wished to kiss. Perhaps I was simply very choosy. Perhaps, like my father and Frank's father and many hundreds of others, I simply had to wait for G.o.d's good time.

He lowered his voice. 'What do you think of Gypsy Susan, for example?'