side of his chest, the impact jarring and brutal, hurling Peter out of
the field of play with the ball spinning from his hands and bouncing
away loosely, while Peter smashed into the earth on both knees, then
rolled forward head over heels, and sprawled face down on the soggy
turf.
It's a touch-down! Samantha was still leaping up and down.
No/ said Nick. No, it isn't. Peter Berg dragged himself upright. His
cheek was streaked with chocolate mud and both his knees were running
blood, the skin smeared open by the coarse grass.
He did not glance down at his injuries, and he shrugged away the St Paul
boy's patronizing hand, holding himself erect against the pain as he
limped back on to the field. He did not look at his father, and the
moisture that filled his eyes and threatened to flood over the thick
dark lashes were not tears of pain, but of humiliation and failure, With
an overwhelming feeling of kinship, Nick knew that for his son those
feelings were harder to bear than any physical agony.
When the game ended he came to Nicholas, all bloodied and mud-smeared,
and shook hands solemnly.
I am so glad you came, sir, he said. I wish you could have watched us
win. Nick wanted to say: It doesn't matter, Peter, it's only a game.
But he did not. To Peter Berg, it mattered very deeply, so Nicholas
nodded agreement and then he introduced Samantha.
Again Peter shook hands solemnly and startled her by calling her, 'M'am.
But when she told him, Hi, Pete. A great game, you deserved to slam
them/ he smiled, that sudden dazzling irresistible flash that reminded
her so of Nicholas that she felt her heart squeezed. Then when the boy
hurried away to shower and change, she took Nick's arm.
He's a beautiful boy, but does he always call you 'sir'? haven't seen
him in three months, It takes us both a little while to relax. Three
months is a long time It's all tied up by the lawyers. Access and
visiting-rights what's good for the child, not what's good for the
parents.
Today was a special concession from Chantelle, but I still have to
deliver him to her at five o'clock. Not five past five, five o'clock.
They went to the Cockpit teashop and Peter startled Samantha again by
pulling out her chair and seating her formally. While they waited for
the best muffins in Britain to be brought to the table, Nicholas and
Peter engaged each other in conversation that was stiff with
selfconsciousness.
Your mother sent me a copy of your report, Peter, I cannot tell you how
delighted I was, I had hoped to do better, sir. There are still three
others ahead of me. And Samantha ached for them. Peter Berg was twelve
years of age. She wished he could just throw his arms around Nicholas
neck and say, Daddy, I love you, I for the love was transparent, even
through the veneer of publicschool manners. It shone behind the thick
dark lashes that fringed the boy's golden brown eyes, and glowed on the
cheeks still as creamy and smooth as a girl's.
She wanted desperately to help them both, and on inspiration she
launched into an account of Warlock's salvage of Golden Adventurer, a
tale with emphasis on the derring do of Warlock's Master, not forgetting
