Devotion. Louisa Young

to find the only school left in the country which hasn’t yet chucked you out. I dare say she’s still got the list.’

      ‘BSA!’ said Tom.

      ‘Possible motorbike, when you go to university, if your father agrees.’

      ‘University!’ the boy yelped, in new despondency.

      ‘Would you not rather design your own aeroplane?’

      ‘I don’t want to be an engineer!’

      ‘Do you want to spend your life at a disadvantage to other men?’

      ‘Well you haven’t!’ Tom cried. ‘And you didn’t go to university!’

      Riley smiled his crooked smile. ‘Thank you, Tom,’ he said, and only then did Tom realise what he had said. But the car went over a pot-hole, and Peter woke, and didn’t even say, ‘Did I miss anything?’, just started staring out of the window, his mouth slightly pursed. Tom fell silent. After a while he enquired what was for dinner. Riley didn’t know.

      Home was not Peter’s house, the elegant and pastoral Locke Hill, near Sidcup, where Tom had spent some months before his mother’s death. Nor was it the grand cottage of his grandmother, Julia’s mother Jane Orris, to which Tom had been snatched during the war. (Mrs Orris was the kind of relative with whom you would have tea if you had to, and whose voice on the telephone filled you with gloom.) No, home now, was in London: Nadine’s father’s comfortable and fadedly glamorous Georgian house on Bayswater Road, which had somehow become, over the years, Nadine and Riley’s comfortable and fadedly glamorous Georgian house on Bayswater Road, in which Nadine’s father lived with them.

      Kitty was there in the hall, her arms folded across her smock. ‘Welcome home I don’t think,’ she said. ‘What are you doing here? It’s not holidays for boys yet.’

      ‘It’s holidays for me!’ Tom said, in his most annoying voice. ‘Now go away.’ He checked the foreign stamps Nadine had put to one side for him in the hall – several Italian ones, excellent – and in passing greeted Kitty with a casual clout about the head. Last time they had seen each other, as he had left for school, he had by a mere slip of the tongue called Riley ‘Daddy’, whereupon Kitty had kicked him and bared her teeth, making hissing noises. Not that it mattered in the slightest to him what she thought. But order had to be maintained.

      Nadine was coming down the stairs, ink-stained, messy-haired and surprised from her studio in the attic, though she can’t be that surprised, Tom thought. She’d be cross, but Tom knew she wouldn’t be for long. She was concerned, but Tom didn’t concern himself with that; that was what women were for.

      Kitty started scampering around Nadine’s skirts, saying ‘Tom’s been sacked again, he’s such a bad boy—’

      ‘Be quiet, darling,’ Nadine said, and Tom, while vaguely sheepish, could read on her oh-so-readable face that no, this was not the day on which Nadine would cease to find him irresistible.

      ‘Sorry Mums,’ he said, and tried to say ‘It was a duel of honour—’ but Nadine had interrupted him, saying ‘You will be, when no school will have you and you pass no exams and find no employment and you’ll be bored stiff all your life and your children will starve.’

      He could see Kitty behind her, a ‘My children won’t starve’ smirk on her face.

      ‘I said sorry,’ he grumbled, at which point Dr Aunt Rose, a female relative of the better sort – not a moping romantic, nor a massively tweed-bosomed bossyboots, but a drily amused person who if you asked civilly would show you the contents of her leather medical bag (scalpel, opium, syringes) – appeared from the drawing room and gave him a not unsympathetic look. Suddenly his face felt treacherously insecure, so he barged past them all, heading for the stairs.

      In the hall behind him Rose embraced Peter, clapping him on the back as if particularly glad to see him. Grandpa came out to see what the fuss was, patted Tom vaguely as he passed, and mooched off again. And there was Riley, lugging Tom’s bag, and calling him to come back out and help with the trunk.

      As soon as he could, Tom raced up to his room. He glanced over at Kensington Gardens across the road. The park keeper was trudging by. The heavy leaves of high summer draped almost to the grass, but between them Tom could just make out glimpses of the Round Pond, a horizontal gleam in the distance.

      He wondered if the Household Cavalry had been by yet, exercising their stupendously well-kept horses, in two matched, jingling, shining lines, heading round back to Knightsbridge. He thought about going down to the kitchen, where Mrs Kenton might be persuaded to give him some cake. He considered, too, going back down to interfere in the discussions they were no doubt having about his future. He decided against. Whatever they decided made little difference to him. Wherever they sent him, he would, after all, continue to do what he wanted, bear the punishments when they came, and apologise when he had to. And in due course he would be grown up, and free.

      The following morning Nadine, her long curls tidied up, her dark yellow eyes calm, benevolently neglectful over breakfast, patently glad to see everyone in the right place – i.e., around a table and within her view – announced that the Italian cousins had invited them to stay during the summer holiday.

      Joy engulfed Tom over his toast and milk. A foreign country! Foreign! And it would mean less time at Locke Hill with Peter.

      Nobody had ever met any of these cousins. For years their existence had passed London by, until someone called Aldo Elia Fiore – Tom saw Kitty trying out the name, stretching her mouth round the unfamiliar shapes – son of Nadine’s mother’s sister and her Italian husband, had written to his lost cousin Nadine. And now she, Tom and Kitty were going to visit his family in Rome.

      But Riley was not coming. Nobody was happy about this, but everybody accepted it. He had to go to work, of course. Men usually had to go to work, one way or another. This was the main way of telling that Peter was getting better: he was working now. Writing this Homer book for Riley to publish! There was a manuscript to prove it. Peter had shown it to Tom, with an expression on his face similar to the one Tom wore, on the few occasions when he’d liked a teacher enough to want to impress him. Peter had said, ‘Well. There it is. First draft,’ and Tom had looked at it and thumbed it, and said, ‘That’s a lot of words’, and that had seemed to do. Anyway, as Riley said now, ‘Books don’t publish themselves’, so he had to work, and not come on holiday, so the joy was clouded. If Tom had paid more attention he might have picked up that strong, tough, humorous, hardworking Riley, who could cope with anything (and had), simply did not want to take a train across Europe to meet new people, to have to talk to them, to stay in a house as a guest with them when he didn’t know them, and they would not understand his mangled voice (in English or his remnants of Italian), or know that he could not eat most solid food, or that he had to be able to sleep when he needed to, to stop talking sometimes even in the middle of a conversation, to leave the moment leaving became necessary.

      Tom thought he knew all about Riley. Plenty of fathers and uncles had lost arms and legs in the war; Riley had lost part of his face. Plenty of men had wooden legs and prosthetic arms (Mr Tanley at school had one with attachments: he had a spork, a gripper for pens, and all kinds of wood-working tools he could just screw in, and he’d let you play with them). Riley had had his face repaired using his own skin from the top of his head. His black hair was thick and curly; he would comb it back with his fingers over the broad strip of scar when he had to take off his hat. He looked jolly good considering. Tom had always known this, and didn’t remember being told. Though he did remember being told about Peter – Dr Aunt Rose saying to him, in the drawing room at Locke Hill, ‘Tom, some men are wounded in their bodies and some are wounded in the heart of themselves, in their soul, and your poor dad is wounded