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dying to show it to his mother.
    As he got up the youth beckoned him over to join them. “Sorry,” said Andy, “I’m in a hurry.”
    He ran all the way home, let himself in through the front door, then shouted excitedly, “Mum, Mum.”
    â€œThere’s no need to shout,” said his mother, gliding out of the drawing room like a disturbed ghost.
    â€œLook,” said Andy, holding out the paper.
    â€œWhat do I want with that rag,” said his mother.
    â€œJust look,” said Andy, getting impatient.
    His mother looked startled as she turned to her headlines, read the article at least twice, going whiter in the face all the time, and then, for the very first time that Andy could ever remember, she grabbed him in a huge hug and sobbed and sobbed. Christ, thought Andy, we must have weeping in our genes.
    Andy did not know how long his mother clung to him, it seemed to be half an hour, but was probably just a few minutes. Suddenly she regained her composure, shook herself, literally, and said, “I’m sorry, you are a good lad,” she squeezed his arm and went back to her room.
    Suddenly Andy understood a whole range of things. His mother’s barrage of words were just a protective screen. Perhaps, before, he’d been too young to appreciate this. Now she had achieved something, it didn’t sound much, just a write-up in the local rag, but the important thing was it said that she was a professional actress. He wondered now whether the balance of things between his mother and father would change. He would just have to wait and see.
    His mother stayed in her room for the rest of the afternoon and only came downstairs at about six o’clock. “Be a good lad and fetch some fish ’n chips,” she said in a voice that was quite foreign to Andy. They had just time to eat them before the actors’ coach called to pick her up for yet another performance.
    His father was working late again and had not yet appeared home.
    Andy admired his father greatly, and fully realized the long hours he put in at work. He wondered if his father’s colleagues put in anything like the hours his father did. His father seemed to be working later and later every night.
    He had kept one portion of fish ’n chips back ready to heat up when his father came in, grumbling, at about 8.30 p.m., looking weary and exhausted.
    Poor dad, thought Andy, and for a moment as he looked at his father, he thought he had cut his cheek.
    He was about to say something to him, but then, as his father turned away, Andy realized that it wasn’t blood or a cut, it was lipstick. He said nothing, but hoped his father would find it when he went upstairs to wash, remove it and then the matter wouldn’t come up.
    He couldn’t bear to think of the consequences, but his working late, and staying on at the office, did now have a new interpretation.
    By the time his father came down his face was clean, thank God, and Andy gave him the warmed fish ’n chips, at the same time handing him the local rag with the story of his mother’s success.
    His father read it, then whistled between his teeth. “So the old girl’s hit the headlines. I wonder what she’ll be like to live with now?”
    Andy, feeling strangely protective towards her, said nothing.
    For the next few days Andy looked around trying to find somebody to cycle to Blackpool with him.
    Anybody who was almost a friend at Metson College had just sneered at the idea, they were off on their hols to their villas in exotic places like the South of France.
    In the end, he could find no one, and when he was reaching this stage he felt strangely cheerful. He was on his own, but that wasn’t so bad. He was free, he could go where he liked, stop when he liked, and was glad that no one was going with him.
    He was older now than on his last trip, the war had finished, there was no black-out, but still rationing, and more cars on