'You've been fine,' said Spencer. 'And you've already done me a favour. D'you know Fran found Bill?'

'No! Where?'

'Right at the back of the cupboard under the sink where I keep the pet supplies.' He tried and failed to keep a reproving note out of his voice.

'Ohh,' said Niall, getting it. 'That was me, wasn't it? Inadvertent lock-in by the eejit rookie zoo-keeper. Is he OK?'

'He seems to be.' His reply was a little stiff; Niall was taking the near-death of one of his charges rather lightly.

'Spence, he's tried to get back in twice,' said Fran. 'He ate half a packet of reptile anti-fungal powder while he was there and it's his new favourite diet; he won't touch magazines any more.' Shortly after the rescue, she had carried out an experiment in which she had placed Bill equidistant to the box of powder and a couple of pages of Horn and he had virtually sprinted towards the former.

'So, I've cured him of his w.a.n.k-mag habit,' said Niall, triumphantly. 'Fantastic. And how's the rest of the brood?'

'We buried the chameleon last week,' said Spencer. He had been changing its water when it had simply fallen off the branch, apparently in an advanced stage of rigor mortis. 'So in exactly a year I've managed to whittle a rich and varied collection down to Bill and a spider.' He saw the other two exchange glances.

'Now listen.' Niall put a hand on his arm. 'You've done Mark proud, you've kept them alive a f.u.c.k of a lot longer than he ever managed. You know what he was like he treated them like a set of light bulbs if one died he'd just replace it with another one the same size. He'd have p.i.s.sed himself at the idea of burying a lizard.'

'Chameleon,' corrected Fran.

'Chameleon, lizard, Puff the bleeding Dragon if it died it was in the bin. No sentiment involved, in the bin and then straight down the pet shop with his Access. It's true, isn't it?' Spencer was silent and Niall gave his arm a little shake. 'Isn't it?'

Spencer was thinking two things; the first was that six months ago, maybe even six weeks ago, he would have become quite defensive at the implied criticism of Mark, whereas now it seemed a reasonable and even amusing comment and in no way a mean-spirited betrayal of his memory. When had that transition occurred? The other thought was more pertinent.

'When Mark went into hospital the first time,' he said, 'I offered to look after the animals and he talked me through it. Do you remember he had a couple of geckoes then? The ones that walk up the side of the tank?'

'I remember,' said Niall.

'Well he referred to them as seven and nine. It turned out that that was the number of replacements he'd got through since the original pair. I hadn't even realized they all looked the same.'

'You see.'

'To be fair to Mark they really were delicate,' said Spencer. 'I mean, he was only in hospital three weeks, but I was already up to eight and ten by the time he got out. He never knew.'

'Good man,' said Niall. 'Mind you, I think we all thank Christ that you're a doctor and not a vet.'

Tom grabbed the rolls and was tearing the first one open and slathering it with jam before she could get her coat off.

'Grandad's only got All-Bran and porridge and prunes,' he said with disdain. 'There's just nothing to eat here.'

'Can you get a plate?' she asked, as he bit off a great mouthful, scattering crumbs across the floor, and he opened a random cupboard and stared blankly at a stack of ca.s.serole dishes.

He closed it again, and opened the next one to reveal a row of gla.s.ses. 'I can't find any.'

She got the plates herself, and the knives and the b.u.t.ter and the napkins, and made herself a pot of tea before sitting down at the table.

'Where is your grandad?'

'In the garden,' he said, pasting b.u.t.ter onto a second roll. 'Reinforcing the new fence. Putting up gun turrets.'

She pulled a pile of letters towards her and spotted her own name and address on the top one, partially obscured by a red stamp that said 'REDIRECTED'. 'When did this come?' she asked; they had been waiting for their post for two weeks.

'Just now, when you were out. A whole bunch turned up at once, the postman had to knock on the door. Hey, you know we're getting that Young Citizens Award.' He waved a typed letter at her. 'We can spend that hundred quid getting our pictures done, can't we?'

'Or you could give it back,' she suggested mildly, leafing through the pile in search of something that wasn't a bill, 'so it could go to somebody more deserving.' There was one hand-addressed letter, a card by the feel of it, in a tasteful pale grey envelope, and an A4 manila package from the States with 'In G.o.d We Trust' printed in purple across the flap. Her stomach lurched. She had tucked the memory of her request to Bethesda College so far into the back of her mind that it was like seeing an unwelcome visitor on the doorstep, one whom you had casually but insincerely invited to visit. She put it to one side.

'I bet we could save more libraries by modelling than by doing pet.i.tions. I'll give you a bet if you want.'

'Mmm?' she said, half listening, and then, 'What's this?' At the bottom of the pile, one of the letters had been opened and the contents a yellow booklet half-stuffed back again.

'Oh, Grandad thought it was for him. It was in with the other post and it said I Unwin on the front.'

She eased the booklet out and turned it over. The t.i.tle was in large, bold lettering: London Area Authority Grants and Bursaries for Medical Students studying in the United Kingdom. She jammed it back so hastily that the envelope split and the booklet uncurled on the table again, rocking slightly as if to draw attention to itself. Tom looked at her, roll halted midway to his mouth.

'What's the matter?' he asked.

'Nothing,' she said, with unconvincing lightness, turning the booklet over so that the t.i.tle was hidden.

'I've already seen it, Mum. Who's going to be a medical student, then?'

'No one.'

'You're not thinking of me and Rob, are you?' he said, derisively.

'What?' asked Robin, loping into the kitchen.

'Mum's being mysterious. She's got a thing on medical students.'

'What thing?'

'A thing on grants for medical students. A pamphlet.'

'Why?'

'It's just for work,' she said, coming up with a useful lie rather too late for it to be believed.

'Well why did they send it here, then?'

'Who's going to be a medical student?' asked Robin, still half asleep, sliding into a chair. 'You need sciences for that, don't you?'

'Ayesha. Is Ayesha going to medical school?'

'You need three As or something, don't you?'

'She can examine me any time she wants,' said Tom, salaciously, licking jam out of his third roll.

'Or what's the name of that fat nurse who does the warts?'

'Oh G.o.d, yeah. She'd be like Mengele, wouldn't she?'

'Who?' asked Robin, who'd given up History at fifteen.

Iris, refilling the kettle and inventing a little washing-up so that she could stay out of the conversation, was torn between relief and a certain resentment. While she had wanted to keep her embryonic research project a secret for the time being, it was galling to hear her sons speculate on every possible recipient of a student grant apart from the obvious one.

'Or what about this, Tom maybe they're sending Robodoc back to college.'

'I must examinate you,' said Tom, in a Dalek voice.

'Examinate!! Examinate!!' They revolved around the kitchen for a while, blasting imaginary patients.

'Or what about the nit nurse '

'Or that glue bloke '

'So go on, Mum, who's it for then?' asked Tom, coaxingly, after they had run through the entire surgery.

'Well...' She dried her hands slowly and looked at her sons; their faces were turned towards her but she wondered who they were seeing. 'You know, there is one person you haven't mentioned.'

'Who, Dr Petty?'

'No,' she said patiently, and then, when it was clear that they were never, ever going to arrive at the correct answer unprompted, she told them.

'You?'

She had never seen them look so identical, jaws sagging, eyes like marbles.

'Yes,' she said, defensively. 'After all, I used to be one, didn't I? I got two As and a B.'

'But ' it was, inevitably, Tom who found his voice first ' you're too old, aren't you?'

'Not necessarily.' It was Spencer who had shown her, casually one day at lunchtime, a couple of months ago now, a newspaper article about a woman of fifty who had just qualified as a doctor. 'She hadn't even done sciences at school,' he'd said, and Iris had secretly taken the paper home with her and cut out the picture of the comfortably pear-shaped heroine, standing by the hospital steps in her white coat, poised to add to the growing good with unhistoric acts.

'I'm only thinking about it,' she said. 'I've no idea if I'd get a place. Or a grant. I wasn't going to tell you yet, but...' But I have some pride, she thought.

She could see the idea sifting through their heads, being sampled and tested, like a dud coin for toothmarks.

'Wouldn't it be weird, though?' said Robin. 'Like, everybody else would be eighteen.'

'I spend quite a lot of my time with eighteen-year-olds, you know,' she said, gently.

'Durrrrrr,' said Tom, to his brother.

They looked at her again, weighing, testing.

'You never said anything about it before.'

'I never seriously thought about it before.'

'So why are you doing it now?'

She hesitated. 'Because I've realized it's possible,' she said, and then because it was a better and truer answer 'because I'm tired of small changes.'

'You'd be a better doctor than Petty,' said Robin. 'He doesn't listen to anything. And you'd be better than Robodoc.'

'Thank you,' she said.

'My a.r.s.e would be better than Robodoc,' said Tom. 'Hey, Mum' struck by a happy thought 'you can have our grants. We don't mind not going to college, do we Rob?'

'No,' said Robin, keenly. 'You can go instead of us.'

'Yeah, you can move out and we can keep the flat,' added Tom.

'Now let's not '

The back door opened and her father came in and stamped his feet on the mat, at first with his usual thoroughness, and then with a gradual diminution of effort as he sensed the atmosphere.

'Is something the matter?' he asked.

'No,' she said, brightly. 'Would you like some breakfast?'

'Not for me, thank you. I've had my oats.' There was a stifled laugh from one of the boys.

'I'm sorry about opening your letter, Iris.'

'That's all right.'

'Something for work, was it?' He had started taking off his shoes, but her prolonged silence made him look up. The twins glanced between their mother and grandfather as if at a tennis match; Iris dithered over her serve.

'Well, no,' she said at last, unable to prevaricate. 'Actually, it was for me.'

She had expected surprise. What she hadn't expected was that her father's face, defined by those long, sad, disappointed grooves which not even Tammy had managed to French-polish away, would flower into amazement and pride and joy. 'Oh Iris,' he said. 'Oh Iris.'

'Lady Muck!' said Niall as they pa.s.sed mid-Serpentine. Spencer, sitting in the stern with one hand trailing indolently in the frigid water, gave a gracious wave with the other.

'Meet you back at the jetty in ten minutes,' shouted Nick, his arm tightly round his daughter, as Fran's strenuous rowing stretched the distance between the boats. There was a sudden wail from Nina, and Spencer craned round to see the Beefeater once again bobbing in their wake.

'Third time,' said Fran.

'Are you trying to break some kind of record?' asked Spencer, as the far sh.o.r.e shot towards them.

'I know how keen you are.... on doing things properly,' she said between oar strokes, 'so I thought we should at least.... go once round the block.... f.u.c.k!' She caught a crab and the oar bounced out of her hand. 'Ow. s.h.i.t.'

'Are you all right?'

'Yeah.' She shook her hand and swore a bit more, and picked up the oars again with a less determined air.

'I'll still count it,' said Spencer, 'even if we don't go all the way round. I counted the fish market, and I didn't get there till two minutes before it closed.' A flat-faced man had given him an unsold coley before slamming a grille in his face. 'It still got a tick.'

'Spence, I meant to ask you something about the list why did it say "a" c.o.c.kney pub, instead of "the" c.o.c.kney pub?'