From the bottom of the case Isabella pulled a large gift box covered in white suede.

'Can you guess what it is I have brought for you, Marco?'

Mark assumed a satirical expression.

'Why no, Mamma. Is it Enrico's wig collection?'

'Marco!' Isabella rapped him on the knee, but she smiled. 'Enrico was my second husband, after Marco's father,' she confided. 'He was a pig, a tyrant, not even half as much money as he said. I divorced him after five months. And, for a joke, Marco and I stole all his toupees and made a bonfire of them. But they were plastic! They did not burn, they melted all into the grass and the gardener had to dig them out. The smell was beyond description.' She flared her nostrils as if the scent had again invaded her nose. 'No, no, Marco. I have brought you something wonderful. Open, open.'

Mark pulled at the gold ribbons tying down the lid and opened the box. He stared at the contents for a second or two completely impassively. He looked at his mother with suspicion.

'Really?' he said.

'Certainly, why not?'

Slowly, Mark lifted out an object of gold and glass and placed it on the coffee table.

It was a shining confection, an ornate glass box covered with gold scrollwork, with six curved gold feet like eagle's talons holding on to orbs. There was a white velvet-lined central compartment and a mechanism of notched cylinders and metal combs.

Mark felt underneath the box, turned an unseen key we heard the strained cranking then opened the lid. A metallic note sounding out a childhood tune: 'Au Clair de la Lune'. It was a music box. We listened in silence as the melody played out three times and the box wound down, the final notes coming in a syrupy slow dragging drip.

'Of course,' Mark said when the tune was finished, 'it's a very gaudy thing.'

'You loved it when you were a boy, Marco, do you remember?' Before giving him a chance to reply Isabella barrelled on. 'It was my mother's. It is precious. It was made for her family 150 years ago, very rare. This box, Marco could not hear it enough. He used to ask for it in the night when he was frightened and she would put it on the little table by his bed and start it to play. She left the door so he could see the light from the hallway. Do you remember, Marco? In the night?'

Mark's expression was hooded, his eyes half-closed.

'I remember,' he said at last. 'I loved it.'

'You should thank your mamma for bringing this beautiful thing for you all the way from California.'

And he murmured, 'Thank you, Mamma.'

The following day, Isabella invited a monk for tea. Franny told me once that Mark's father who was the source of Mark's money but was mostly absent from his life had made a vast donation to his own old college to secure their agreement for Mark to study philosophy and theology, even though they did not officially offer this subject. He had likewise arranged, through some arcane connection, that Mark should take half his tutorials among the monks of St Benet's Hall.

Father Hugh was, I believe, a fairly senior figure at the college. It was impossible to take him seriously, though. First, because of Mark's nickname for him, 'Hugh the Huge Hunky Monk', and with his strong jaw, rough mop of brown curls and muscular physique, I could see what Mark meant. He had a way of crossing his legs and hurling himself against the sofa at moments of animation which suggested that his cassock was about to open, laying bare all that ought to remain concealed. He had brought with him an oiled olive-wood rosary as a gift for Isabella I guessed that Mark's family had exhibited their generosity to Benet's too and two people he described as 'young Christians'. They were Rosemary a girl with a nose made for dripping and a shapeless outfit of pale blue and Eoin, who, despite his name, was thoroughly English and wore the Oriel College rowing jersey.

I wasn't invited to the tea party and all the others were out. But as I crossed the hall, Mark called to me through the open door to the long salon. He was hunched over, on a chair between the two sofas, one occupied by his mother and Rosemary, the other by Father Hugh and Eoin. He looked like a tethered dog.

'James!' he said. 'James! Come and have tea with us!'

Isabella frowned. The monk and his two young friends looked at me with shining-eyed interest. I almost said no. But then Mark caught my gaze again. He put the tips of his fingers together into an almost-praying gesture and mouthed 'Please'. So I came in and sat down.

Eoin had just returned from the Himalayas, as he was pleased to inform us after introductions had been made. He pronounced the word with extraordinary stress on the second syllable, gulping all his sentences from the back of his throat.

'Yuh,' he said, 'eight days climbing. Failed to summit because Callan Gosset do you know Callan?'

This, startlingly, was directed at me. On further reflection, I supposed that he had every right to assume that I came from his social group: he had found me living in this house, after all. I shook my head.

'No? Shame. Top man, Callan. Absolutely barking mad, been digging wells in Namibia with Icthus Relief?'

I shook my head again.

'No? Never mind. The thing was, Callan's fingers froze. Tried to thaw them out, all five of us pissed on them. Sorry.' This was to Isabella with a rueful smile. 'But nothing for it. Gangrene set in, had to get back to base camp. Missed the summit by 120 feet.'

Father Hugh kicked his sandalled feet out, billowing his cassock dangerously.

'It was all for Christian Aid, wasn't it, Eoin? Wonderful cause, I always say.'

'Oh, yuh,' said Eoin, through a mouthful of cake. 'Tremendous thing, sponsored, raised 15,000. Thereabouts.'

Isabella nodded appreciatively. 'Isn't that lovely, Marco? All the money for charity.'

Mark muttered something under his breath. I thought I might have heard the words 'sponsored silence', but it was too low for me to catch.

'What was that, Mark?' boomed Father Hugh.

'Oh, I was just thinking, Eoin, that you should try other sponsored activities. Maybe an ascent of the Eiger?'

Eoin took another sandwich from the pile on the table in front of him and bit down happily.

'Yuh,' he said, 'this summer, kayaking along the Amazon. For the Glaucoma Trust.'

'Marvellous,' murmured Isabella.

'Still a few places if you want to come,' Eoin said to me and Mark, wolfing another sandwich. 'Have to register, get vaccinations. Three weeks in a canoe, Amazon river, chance of a lifetime.'

I shook my head. Mark turned smoothly in his seat.

'What about you, Rosemary?' he said. 'Got any summer plans you can't cancel?'

Rosemary sniffed away a non-existent drip and spoke so quietly that we all instinctively leaned forward.

'I'll be in Rome,' she whispered.

'Oh!' Isabella leaned even further forward, full of excitement. 'Roma! The most beautiful city in the world! Where do you stay? What do you see?'

Rosemary sniffed again and cleared her throat. If possible, she spoke even more softly.

'The Sisters of Holy Charity have kindly given me board,' she said. 'I am studying manuscripts held in the Vatican.' She lowered her voice a touch. 'For my PhD.'

Father Hugh smiled a toothy but engaging smile.

'Rosemary's quite a star of the Theology Department. She's at All Souls, you know.'

Even I could not fail to look at Rosemary with increased respect at this news. All Souls College is one of Oxford's legends, the kind of anachronism that surely could not have survived until the present day, and yet it stands. It is a college with no students, giving fellowships to those who having naturally gained a first are bright enough to impress the other fellows in its examinations, one of which consists of writing for three hours on a single word.

Isabella, confused about the meaning of the words 'All Souls', nonetheless registered the admiration on my face and Mark's.

'You see, Marco,' she said, 'it is not only duddy-fuddies in the Catholic Society, is it, Father?'

'No indeed,' he said, 'and we don't demand any particular commitment. Although naturally ' he shifted his legs again in that disturbing way 'I always say that the more you put in, the more you get out. Are you a Catholic, James?'

'I? Oh, er, no,' I said. I decided to be bold. 'I'm not a Christian, actually. I'm an agnostic if anything, I suppose.'

Father Hugh laughed three bellowing guffaws.

'You're not even sure about that, eh? Well, we're not prejudiced. Come along to the Catholic Society in any case for wine and my atrocious home-made shepherd's pie. Bring Mark.'

'Oh no, I don't think I '

'You should go, Marco,' chimed in Isabella. 'It is good for you to have Catholic friends. This is what I want for you. It would keep you from ... I ...' She trailed off, looked at me and said, 'I do not mean to be offence, James, but I would like Marco to have more Catholic friends. Not so many a-nose-stick. A nice group of Catholic friends would help him with his ...' She frowned as if reaching for a word, then finished, 'It would help him.'

Even Eoin and Rosemary shifted a little in their seats at this. Mark became very still, very quiet.

'Now, of course, we don't want to tell anyone who to be friends with, do we?' Father Hugh rearranged himself and chuckled. 'I always say that a wide social circle provides the furniture for a mental '

'But,' said Isabella, cutting across him, 'excuse me, do you not think that a circle can be too wide, Father? Not every friend is suitable.'

'Ah yes, that's certainly true,' said Father Hugh, 'but nonetheless I think we can allow some '

'And the right group helps a person to follow a good path.' She turned her anxious frown on Mark. 'Like the Lord, Marco, and His disciples.'

'You think I should get myself some disciples, Ma?' He seemed curiously detached. Quiet still and slow. 'Twelve people to follow me about and do what I tell them? Sounds good to me.'

'Do not be silly, Marco!' She slapped her hand vigorously on his forearm in agitation, alarming Colonel Felipe, who bounded across the room to cower underneath an armchair. 'You are always so, always you try not to understand, always you ...'

She broke suddenly into a stream of Italian, too rapid for me to catch even a word or two. Her hands were balled into angry fists. She pointed first at me, then at Rosemary and Eoin, speaking emphatic ally. There were little squeaks of rage. I should not have cared to have this speech directed at me.

Mark stiffened under the assault. At last, when the flow of her words ceased, he said, 'So you still don't trust me, is what you're saying? It's not enough for Father Hugh to keep an eye on me.' Father Hugh stirred but did not attempt a denial. 'You want me on a leash. Perhaps you want to carry me in your handbag too, like your bloody dog?'

Father Hugh, raising his hand in a benedictory fashion, said, 'I'm sure your mother only wants what's best for you, Mark. I'm sure we all do.' He beamed at the group. 'Family discussions can become so heated, and I always say '

Isabella spoke over him again, but more quietly, her fury spent. 'I do trust you. That is why I brought you the box. I know you can be trusted now. I know you are different now. But the Catholic Society ...'

'I don't care about the fucking music box. Take it back for all I care. I don't want anything from you. And I don't want anything from the fucking Catholic Society either.'

Mark spoke very low and very quickly, and then there was silence. Eoin was still holding a sandwich mid-bite. Rosemary had folded her hands neatly in her lap and was staring at them.

Father Hugh stirred again, refolded his legs and said, 'Families know just how to needle each other, I always say. But it's good to air grievances and to move on. Now, Mark, I'm sure your mother simply means that you might enjoy from time to time the company of delightful energetic young people like Eoin here, or Rosemary.'

The two sat stock still, appearing neither delightful nor energetic.

'No one wants you to give up your other friends, of course not, but '

'You don't know what she wants,' said Mark. He stood up. 'I apologize, Father Hugh, but I have to go now.' He lurched out of the room and slammed the door behind him.

At the noise, Colonel Felipe began to yap loudly, baring his little pointed teeth and shaking his head. Isabella rushed over to the armchair, gathered the Colonel to her and petted him, cooing in soft Italian until he calmed.

'Oh, Father Hugh, Father Hugh. I am so sorry for this ... all this anger, I am so sorry.'

It seemed like a good moment for me to excuse myself. Father Hugh shook my one hand between his two, shaking his head and grinning winningly as he muttered, 'Agnostic ...'

He, Isabella and Colonel Felipe headed out through the back of the house towards the garden, while I climbed the stairs slowly to the first floor. My knee was hurting a great deal, as it often does in hot weather even now. I took the stairs one at a time, keeping my injured leg stiff and bending only the good knee.

At the top of the stairs I paused. Should I go after Mark? Perhaps he would be grateful for the company. I stepped heavily along the corridor when I heard a crash, a loud exasperated growl and several short bangs coming from his room.

'Mark?' I called, and the noise ceased.

'Mark?' I said again.

'I'm fine!' he called out. 'It's nothing.' His voice was thick.

I stood for a little while in the corridor.

'Sure?' I said at last.

'Yup, yeah. It's nothing. I'm fine.'

I stood a while longer, then turned and walked back towards my room.

The next morning, Sunday, Isabella made ready to leave. She repacked her suitcases, with Colonel Felipe yapping and snarling among the Bodleian-branded carrier bags and the Oxford University sweaters. I hid in my bedroom, hoping to remain out of sight. It was then that Mark came to ask me for the return of his razor.

I hesitated.

'For God's sake,' he said, holding out his hand. 'If I wanted to again, don't you think I could just get something from the kitchen?'

He waited patiently while I went through my bag. The razor was old, horn-handled, a pleasant thing to hold in one's palm. I passed it to him without comment.

It was only when he turned to go that I found myself saying, 'What did she say to you yesterday? What happened?'

He cocked his head to the side.

'Ancient history, my friend, ancient history.'

'But what?' I persisted, surprised at myself. I found I wanted to know very much. 'What history? That is ' I could not help the hedge 'if you don't mind saying.'

'Oh ...' He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. 'We were alone together for a long time, Ma and me. She has notions. About my soul, you know. I think she secretly hopes I'll become a monk. Keep me safe.'

'Because you're gay?'

His eye was mocking and sharp.

'Lord, no. She doesn't care about that. No, no.'

He smiled faintly, a strange-angled smile.

'So what, then? What's she afraid of?'