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was in trouble. Arthur’s number was found written on his backpack and—
    Arthur broke in to ask some questions.
    The replies were evasive. It was their primary job to protect the child, so they wanted information, though were not prepared to give any. Arthur, never good in such situations, felt his hackles rising.
    His voice began to rise, he began to bluster, but just as he was beginning to shout, Margaret came into the room.
    She arched a questioning eyebrow and he calmed down at once.
    ‘Just a moment,’ he said. His hand covered the receiver.
    ‘Who is it, Arthur?’
    ‘It’s a Mister Lynas of the North Yorkshire Health Authority, and he . . .’
    Arthur then explained as best he could. As he did, the feeling began to grow in him that he was in the process of making a mess of what might be the most important telephone call he would ever receive.
    He took up the phone again.
    ‘I think,’ he said as mildly as he could, ‘that you should be talking to my wife. Could you hold on, please?’
    Margaret took the receiver and started the conversation over.
    ‘Hello, I’m Margaret Foale. Could you . . . ?’
    By the time Margaret was finished she had established a friendly rapport with Roger Lynas, found out that the boy’s name was Jack and extracted a promise that they were now to be kept in the loop. She had succeeded in conveying the impression, without telling any actual lies, that they knew a good deal more about this boy than they did, and managed to establish the idea that she and her husband should now be involved further. However, a meeting would be necessary before they could help.
    She was given a number to call, received effusive thanks, and, most important of all, got information that Jack was being sent that same day to London for further assessment.
    ‘Tomorrow, then, you’ll call us,’ she finally agreed.
    But as she put down the phone she looked pale. She began breathing rapidly so she had to sit down.
    ‘What is it?’ asked Arthur.
    They had not been able to have children, though both had much wanted them. They had always known that this huge and ramshackle country house, which was Margaret’s inheritance, needed children. It was that kind of home, full of space for children to play and a garden with trees to climb, and places to build dens and to hide in, which needed young life.
    The phone-call had stirred something in Margaret’s emotions deeply, and pushed her to a place she had never thought she would have the opportunity to go to.
    Arthur went over to her. ‘What is it?’ he asked gently.
    ‘That conversation,’ she said. ‘It is the first I have ever had about any child as if . . . as if . . .’
    She bowed her head and reached blindly for him.
    ‘. . . as if it were my own.’
    ‘But, darling—’
    ‘I know, I know but . . . this boy has no one. Absolutely no one. Can you imagine that?’
    ‘Yes, but—’
    ‘Something’s happening, Arthur, and it’s something important. It’s a beginning of something, and that boy is its beginning. I’ve never been a mother so I supposed I’d never have a mother’s instinct, but there’s something about the boy – they’re calling him Jack – which has changed something in me.’
    She fell silent.
    ‘Tomorrow; we’ll know more tomorrow,’ was all he could say.
    Sudden rain lashed against the window. They heard the conservatory door crash shut.
    ‘It’s started already,’ she said suddenly. ‘It’s happening now . . .’
    Arthur looked baffled.
    ‘. . . and do you know something?’
    He shook his head.
    ‘There’s another thing I feel, which I have never felt before. I think it’s what every parent feels about their child – or fears, anyway. I feel something awful’s going to happen to Jack, and it’s a kind of torture because there’s nothing I can do, nothing . . .’
    Arthur held her tight as the storm hit the house hard, and Margaret wept the pent-up grief of years. Inside the house and outside, it felt to