chair. âNice lass, Sarah,â he added, which had sunk in by then. Heâd got his Zimmer near the sink and was leaning perilously out to fill the kettle.
âIâll wash these things up,â I said when heâd moved out of the way. There were little bits of rice in the sink from the risotto. âHow old is she?â I asked.
âTwenty,â he said, âor thereabouts.â
âSame as me,â I said.
He turned. He canât turn his head so he swivelled his whole body. âNo!â he said after peering for a minute. âIâd have put you down for sweet sixteen.â
I donât know why people think you should be so pleased to look like a kid when youâre not, even if you do feel like one. âActually Iâm twenty next week,â I said.
He turned back to his teapot. âFlesh on her bones though,â he said. âNice pair of Bristols.â
âWhat!â I went. I couldnât stop myself. I mean, Bristols .
He did his dirty laugh and starting hacking at a ginger cake with a potato peeler. âShe did me a mop-round,â he said, âso thereâs no need for you to lift a finger this afternoon. Just keep me company.â
âGreat,â I said thinking she could at least have washed up. But I had no heart for cleaning. Really I just wanted to think about Doggo. Or, to not think about him. I didnât know what to talk about so I asked if I could look at his photos again. He asked why. I said I was doing a thesis about fashion.
âThesis?â he said.
âFor my degree.â
âDidnât say you were a student,â he said.
âArt school,â I said and he looked surprised. I donât why that should be so surprising.
He nodded at the sideboard. âHelp yourself, duck.â
But it is rubbish about art school, thatâs the last thing I would ever do. Since I was about three all I really wanted to be was a doctor. I used to toddle about with one of those plastic hammers banging people on the knee and bandaging their fingers together. Then when I got older I could see myself in a white coat, rushing importantly from ward to ward, stethoscope slung around my neck. In a way I still want to be a doctor but I do realise Iâve totally blown it now.
Mr Dickens poured the tea and rabbited on while I turned the pages of the album very slowly, watching the tissue flutter between the stiff card. I stared and stared at Zita in all her fantastic dresses and hats and especially the wigs. When I got to the page with Zita holding the baby I stopped.
âWhose baby?â
âAh â¦â
I could have kicked myself when I saw Mr Dickensâ face cave in. His eyes went dull as if thereâd been a power cut inside him.
âItâs OK,â I said.
But he swallowed and said, âBelinda, our little lass. We had her three weeks. It were what they now call a cot death.â
We sat quiet for a minute then listening to Doughnut wheezing and the clock ticking. I was thinking back to what heâd said before, that there was only the one offspring between the three brothers. I wanted to ask if he didnât count Belinda just because she had died. Do you count babies that have died as offspring or not? It seemed like an important question. I wanted to ask that but how could I?
âTwo tragedies of my life,â Mr Dickens said. âCot death â and then Zita. I do wonder if their deaths had been more run of mill it might not have been so â¦â He stared at the plastic flames then he did a long sigh like he was going to breathe his whole soul out. âOn the other hand,â he said, âthey would still be â¦â
âYes,â I said fast to stop him saying it.
He looked up. âSarah says I must get someone on to garden,â he said and I breathed out. Heâs good like that, Mr Dickens. Brave. He took a long slurpy sip of tea. âKnow anyone?â
I