ONE

      The day my father was arrested for murder began promisingly. It was early November. Usually by mid-autumn the walls of my attic room were spotted with damp and the ancient paraffin heater had to be left on all night. On this particular day the sky was like opaline glass faintly brushed with rose and there was a seductive mildness in the air. I felt unusually hopeful about my life and prospects. I was young – twenty-two – almost certainly in love, and I had a vocation. I was going to be a poet. I could not remember who said that all was for the best in this best of all possible worlds but I was prepared to put money on it.

      Through the window beside my bed the remaining leaves on the topmost branches of the tulip tree looked as though they had been dipped in bronze. I began to compose a line. ‘Bronzed leaves unfurled like faerie banners –’ Banners? Perhaps ‘pennants’ was better. I got out of bed, put on my writing robe, sat at my desk and sharpened my pencil while I thought.

      Pennant, banner, flag, burgee – no, wholly unsuitable, making one think of pink gins and yacht clubs – what about ‘oriflamme’? That was a beautiful word and perfect for a pastoral epic. I abandoned the leaves altogether and thought about my work in progress, entitled ‘Ode to Pulcheria’. Since I had given up writing poetry about myself I seemed to be getting on much better. I had written twelve stanzas and was gratified and disgusted in equal amounts. It had quite a zip to it, but it would keep turning into a poem by somebody else.

      I turned again to Nature for inspiration and saw that Mark Antony was stalking a sparrow. I banged on the glass. He looked up in annoyance