Free Breath of Corruption by Caro Fraser

with a deep sense of pleasure. When the food was all gone he kissed the top of Oliver’s dark, glossy head and lifted him down.
    They spent a couple of hours wading around the bramble bushes at the edge of the woods, picking fruit, while Oliver chattered to his father about all the preoccupations of his four-year -old life, including his new school. Leo detected, beneath Oliver’s excited prattle about his new blazer and school bag, a trace of apprehension, so he told Oliver about his own first day at school, and how quickly you got used to things and made new friends. For a moment Leo found himself recalling, as if it were yesterday, the tarmac playground of the village school, surrounded by black railings that had seemed so high once, filled with roistering children. Himself and thirty-eight mixed infants in one class, most of them wearing hand-me-downs, with one pair of shoes to last a year, and a box of coloured pencils that you daren’t lose, because your mam couldn’t afford another one. How different it would be for Oliver, in his fine new uniform, at his expensive school where the children weredoubtless twelve to a class at most – children who would expect, and receive, yearly ski trips and outrageously expensive birthday parties and the latest electronic toys and computer games. Would he have wanted anything different for Oliver? Probably not, but he wished Rachel had given him a say. As it was, Kingswood House, with its privileged pupils from well-off , middle-class, West London families was
a fait accompli
.
    He glanced down at Oliver. His fingers and mouth were purple with berry juice, he had bramble stains on his sweatshirt and trousers, and a handful of rather mushy berries in his bag.
    Oliver, aware of his father’s gaze, looked up at him and saw the full bag of blackberries which Leo had picked.
    ‘Daddy, you’ve got loads more than me!’ He held up his own pathetic pickings.
    ‘That’s because I didn’t eat most of mine.’ Leo took the plastic bag from Oliver’s damp grasp. ‘Here.’ He tipped some of his own haul into Oliver’s bag and they set off down the lane for home, Oliver bumping his bag of blackberries happily against his thigh, depositing yet more stains for Rachel to fuss over.
    Back at the house, Leo gave Oliver a quick wipe-over and put the blackberries in a bowl in the fridge, then they got into the car and went shopping for food for the evening. Leo’s plan was to give Oliver tea at around half six, then put him to bed shortly after Alasdair and Jenny arrived for dinner. After they’d got back and unloaded the shopping, Leo cooked pasta with tomato sauce for Oliver, and then Oliver helped Leo to make an apple and blackberry crumble with the fruit they had picked that afternoon. Oliver stood on a chair to stir thecrumble mix and Leo helped him to tip it onto the apples and blackcurrant mixture in the dish, and put it in the oven.
    ‘You can have some before you go to bed,’ Leo told him, ‘but first you need to have a bath and scrub all those berry stains off properly. Mummy wouldn’t like you with purple fingers.’
    ‘Mummy likes everything clean,’ said Oliver. ‘Clean as clean.’
    How true, thought Leo. Hers was an antiseptic world. It was up to Leo to add a dash of friendly grubbiness to Oliver’s starched little life.
    By half seven Leo was sitting in an armchair with a glass of whisky, watching the evening news while Oliver, freshly bathed and in his pyjamas, played on the rug with his toys. Leo heard the crunch of car wheels on the gravel outside, and went to greet his guests. Alasdair was in his mid-fifties, and had given up life at the Bar to become a journalist, contributing articles and commentaries to one of the broadsheets. His wife, Jenny, who ten years ago had been solicitor at the firm where Rachel worked, now ran a small, local picture-framing business.
    Jenny made a fuss of Oliver while Leo dispensed drinks. Alasdair stood sipping his drink and