Coralie had never had her son’s now-shoulder-length hair cut, first because he was a pandemic baby, and then because he looked so pretty. While Flo’s had matured into a light brown, Maxi’s hair was still shiny and gold. She had clipped it back at breakfast so he could eat his Weetabix. “Oh, no, it’s just that—”
Roger snatched the sparkly clip from Maxi’s hair, pulling several flaxen strands out along with it. “We’ll get rid of that, at least!”
Max stared at him, astonished.
“Well, Roger!” Adam stepped into the aghast silence. “How are you feeling about beverages? Tea, coffee? We’ve got time for a quick one before we get these guys off to school.”
“You don’t need school, do you? Stay home with Grandad.”
“Oh!” Coralie laughed. She’d just had the children home (and in Lanzarote) for three weeks over Easter. Before that they’d been home fortwo years. “He’s joking! Grandad’s joking. Flo, did you know Grandad has a dog? A tiny dog, and do you know her name? Princess!”
“Not anymore,” her father said. “Jenny kept her.”
“Sorry to hear about that,” Adam said.
“Jenny? Her loss. I’ll take a coffee, since you’re offering. And where’s that other big girl’s blouse?” Roger barked as he strode to the kitchen.
“Oh,” Coralie said faintly. “Daniel, you mean. He’s hoping to cook dinner for us tonight.”
“Tonight?” Her father pulled back the chair at the head of thetable. “I won’t be around. No, I’ll make it to four, five, maybe. And then I’ll be in bed. Won’t I?” he growled at Florence, who looked flattered to be addressed, although unsure how to respond.
“Grandad,” Flo began.
“What’s all this?” He gestured at the array of pleasingly realistic Schleich animals that accompanied Maxi everywhere and were presently clustered around his toast plate.
“Tiger!” Maxi said. “Lion,rar!”
Roger picked up the largest of the animals. “And here is a heffalump.”
“Heffalump?” Flo repeated, confused. “No, no, Grandad, it’s an elephant.”
“Enna-phant,” Max said charmingly. “Fuh-fah!” His trunk sound.
“Oh dear,” Roger said. “You don’t know what a heffalump is. Well, in that case, children, I can’t help you!”
She had forgotten this aspect of her father’s character, a fantastical strain barely compatible with his self-presentation as a fact-based, strategic military man.
“I think a heffalump is from a famous book from the olden days,” she explained. “CalledWinnie-the-Pooh.”
“Winnie-the-Pooh?” Flo repeated, astonished.
“He wasn’t a poo,” Coralie said. “He was a bear.”
“A poo who was a bear?”
“That’s enough of the toilet talk,” Roger said with a frown. “It’s not polite, is it?”
Coralie stood up. “I’m just going to…” She trailed off. “We have to leave in a couple of minutes for nursery. Are you going to come, Dad?”
Florence was stunned. “Dad!”
“Yes, Roger—Grandad—is my dad.”
Florence shook her head in disbelief. Coralie couldn’t quite believe it either.
“I’ll come,” Roger said. “How far’s the drive?”
“It’s just a walk through the park.”
