He met my eyes. And I think even now, I think he could see how I felt.

Then he shoved his hands into his pockets, walked straight past me and down the stairs. I heard the front door bang.

There was a pause, and footsteps. Then Granddad was leaning in the doorway, lighting a cigarette. I was looking at the carpet, but I could see his shoes, and hear the clink of his lighter. A second later I smelt the smoke. I was used to it, but it still made me want to gag.

He said, 'Olly . . .'

There was silence; just the sound of him smoking.

'Oliver. How much of that did you hear?'

'Quite a lot.'

'I'm sorry.'

I clenched my jaw, pushing my tongue against my lower teeth. I couldn't help listening for a knock at the door, because Dad had to come back any second now. He couldn't have left without even saying goodbye. Any second now . . .

'Olly, I'm afraid your father has I'd be very surprised if he comes back.'

I said, 'He's taking me to the Tower of London tomorrow.'

'No,' Granddad said, 'I'm rather afraid he isn't.' A pause. 'Would you still like to go? Shall I take you?'

'No,' I said.

'Very well.' He looked around for an ashtray. His eyes seemed to flicker, as if he was somewhere he didn't recognise. 'I'm truly very sorry, Olly. I know how hard it's been for you. I promise you that I didn't want your father to leave like this.'

'I'm fine.'

I wasn't looking at him, but I could still feel his gaze on my face. I knew he didn't believe me, but he didn't say so.

There was a pause. He sighed and lowered himself slowly down until he was sitting next to me on the stairs. His right hand rested on his leg, the smoke streaming up between his fingers. The skin over his veins was crumpled and shiny, like paper. His other hand was still holding his lighter, turning it over and over so that the silver caught the light.

'Olly, the book he bought you . . .'

It wasn't like Granddad not to finish a sentence. I couldn't help glancing at him. He was watching the drawing-room door as if it was . . . I recognised the expression on his face, but I wasn't sure why.

'That book I'm going to keep it for you until . . . I don't think you'll enjoy it. It's somewhat too . . .'

I waited. Granddad didn't turn his head. I realised, with a strange, distant shock, that his face looked the way mine had when I looked at Dad. As if he could see someone standing in front of him, someone older than he was.

'Granddad,' I said, 'please let me have it. It's only a book. Please give it back. Please.'

'I'll find you something you'll enjoy more.'

'No Granddad, I want that book. Dad bought it for me. Please '

He stood up, making a brief painful noise as he braced himself against the wall. Tiny flecks of ash drifted down on to the carpet. I got to my feet too, holding on to the banister because I wanted to touch something solid. I said again, 'Granddad '

'No.' He didn't look at me. 'I'm your grandfather, Olly, and I know better. You'll have to trust me on this.'

'Well, I don't,' I shouted, and heard my voice crack. 'You made him go away you won't let him in the house you stole my book '

'Oliver '

'I hate you! Why couldn't you just let him ' I was choking. I could feel the tears running down my cheeks. I forced the words out, although I could hardly speak through the sobs. 'I don't trust you! You don't care about me you just want him to go away. And he's your son! Why couldn't you just be nice to him?'

'What happened between your father and me is over. Do you understand, Olly? I am not going to discuss it with you. I'm sorry about what happened tod-'

'No, you're not! This is what you wanted, all the time! For him to go and never come back and ' I wanted to keep talking wanted it desperately, because it was working, I could see Granddad struggling to control his anger but I ran out of breath and leant over, crying too hard to make the right shapes with my mouth.

'Olly . . .'

He put his hand on my back. I spun round and lashed out at him, not caring how hard. My hand knocked his arm away. He drew his breath in and there was a thunk as his lighter dropped against the skirting board.

I looked straight into his eyes and said, 'I hate you.'

He didn't answer. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me.

I waited, glaring at him, until he turned away and bent, wincing, to pick up his lighter. Then I ran up the stairs to my room and lay face down on my bed.

II.

I knew Dad was going to come back. I knew it. He'd come back and apologise for letting Granddad wind him up. He'd tell me I should go and live with him in Australia. Or he might even decide not to go back to Sydney at all.

The next day I got dressed and put my coat and shoes on, so I'd be ready to go when Dad came to pick me up. At eleven o'clock Granddad came up to see me. He brought me tea and toast on a tray like I was ill, and three or four books that he said he thought I might like. He put them down carefully on my desk, and sat on the edge of my bed. He asked me if I was all right, and if I wanted Rosina to buy anything special at the supermarket, and what did I want for dinner, and was I sure I didn't want to go to the Tower of London, because he could take the day off and he knew I'd enjoy it. I didn't answer. I didn't even look at him.

In the end he went away again. He was meant to be working but when I crept past his study on my way to the loo I couldn't hear any typing. I imagined him staring at the engraving of Napoleon on his wall and feeling the way I did, and I thought, He deserves it. He made Dad leave me here. It's all his fault.

On the day after that I made Granddad phone up and tell the coach I wasn't coming to football practice that evening because I was ill. I didn't dare to leave the house in case Dad came round and I missed him.

On the third day I still thought Dad might turn up.

Dad's flight was Sunday afternoon.

The day after that I had to go back to school.

I didn't tell anyone about what had happened, not even Adeel, my best mate. But I couldn't get it out of my head. When I got home from school that Monday I went straight upstairs and stood outside Granddad's study. He was typing, but the door was ajar, which meant I could go in and talk to him if I wanted to. I shifted from foot to foot, imagining what I'd say. You made Dad go away. Or, I want my book back. It's mine, you've got no right . . . Please . . . I don't understand why . . . I took a deep breath, shuffling back and forth, making the floorboards creak.

The typing stopped. Granddad said, 'Olly? Is there something I can help you with?'

Weren't old people meant to go deaf? I swallowed. 'Um, yes please.' I peered round the door. 'I wanted to ask you to talk to you about um . . .'

Granddad leant back in his chair and smiled at me. The air in the room was grey and rippling with smoke. He pushed his typewriter to one side and reached for his cigarettes. He was still looking at me but his hand went straight to the right place. 'The Roman legions again, is it?'

'No, it's ' I stopped. 'About Dad.'

'Ah.' He took a cigarette out of the packet and fumbled with his lighter. It took four goes before he got a flame, and he flipped the lighter shut and clenched his fist over it, staring at his knuckles.

'I Granddad, please can I have the book he gave me? He's never given me anything before, not even for birthdays or Christmas, and ' I swallowed.

'No. I said no, and I meant no.'

'But '

'Oliver.' He looked at me for what seemed like ages. Then he sighed and got up, put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me gently into the room. 'Sit.'

I sat down in his chair. The seat was warm. I bent my head and frowned at the typewriter as if this was my study and Granddad was disturbing me.

'Olly, old chap. Listen to me. I ' He leant against the bookshelves, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray at my elbow. 'I'm not going to give you that book. Not until you're much older. Possibly never.' I started to say something and he raised his voice a little, so that his words cut through mine. 'You have every right to be angry. I myself, in your situation, would be furious. But you must understand that I have only your best interests at heart.'

'You told me I should read more. You said '

'Yes. And you should. How are you getting on with those books I found for you?'

'I want the one Dad gave me.' I twisted to look at him, wishing that I could trust myself not to cry. 'Granddad, why won't you '

'Because ' He tilted his head back against the shelves, blowing smoke at the ceiling. 'Your father . . . I suppose you've gathered by now that he was we were something of a disappointment to each other. He made us both Marian, your grandmother, and me very unhappy. He got in with a bad crowd, and . . . We weren't on good terms for some time before he married your mother, and then . . . Marian died, and when he had to go away, and your mother needed my help . . .'

I sat very still.

'I don't want to speak ill of your father, Olly. I know you you were very excited to see him, and that does you credit. But I've lived almost sixty-seven years longer than you, and I want you to trust that I do know what's best for y-'

'How can a book be bad for me? He's gone, Granddad! He's not coming back! Why won't you ?'

'What?' His voice was sharp all of a sudden, as if he was talking to someone else, not me.

'You shouted at him until he left!'

'Oh.' He breathed out in a tight, uneven way; it was like a laugh, but it wasn't one. 'Very well. The book.'

I hooked my feet behind the rung of the chair and stared up at him.

'The truth is, Oliver,' he said, 'your father when he was your age, or perhaps a little older discovered a great liking for an obsession with, one might even say H. J. Martin, the subject of the biography he bought you. Your father knew that I had met Martin once or twice, and that I'd disliked him, and it seemed to amuse him, I suppose, to develop this hero worship. It was an act of rebellion against me, I think. An attack. And when he took you to that exhibition, and bought you the book, it was not only in spite of the fact that he knew I would see it, it was because he knew I would see it. It was nothing more nor less than an attempt to remind me of the tensions of his own adolescence.'

'You mean he doesn't care about me at all.'

'I ' Granddad paused, took a last drag on his cigarette, then leant towards me to stub it out. 'It is entirely possible that he does care about you, Oliver, very deeply. I'm simply afraid that it wasn't uppermost in his mind when he chose that particular gift for you.'

I looked down at my hands, spread out flat on Granddad's desk. I didn't want to believe him, but it was Granddad. He didn't tell lies, not even when everyone else would, to be kind, or to make his life easier. He always told me when something would hurt. Even when I was small, when I'd asked he'd told me that my mother had got ill and died, and that God didn't exist, and what gay meant.

'Olly?' He bent his knees and put his arm round me, so that our faces were on the same level. 'Oliver, old chap. There's no need to be ashamed '

'I'm not,' I said. 'And I'm not crying.' I pulled away. Granddad watched me for a few seconds, and then stood up. He reached for his cigarettes, glanced at me, and put them in his pocket without lighting one. He didn't say anything. I swallowed over and over, trying to breathe normally, trying not to blink, because my eyes were full of water and I was not crying. I said, 'I hate you,' but only my mouth moved, and the cowardly bit of me was relieved that I hadn't said it out loud this time.

I heard Granddad take a deep breath. 'I don't I honestly can't imagine that you would enjoy the book, at your age.'

I felt something odd squirming in my stomach. I didn't look up.

'It isn't Oliver, I don't want your father to . . . You were terribly miserable all the time he was here, and I don't want . . .'

It had started to rain again. I could hear it against the windows.

'Oliver. Suppose we make a bargain?'

I turned my head. Granddad was leaning against the mantelpiece, gazing into his own eyes in the mirror. He reached out and straightened a photo frame, touching the glass gently. My grandmother beamed at the camera, cradling me in her arms, and my mum touched my hair with one hand, as if she couldn't bear to let go of me completely. That was taken when I was tiny, before my grandmother died and Mum got ill. I couldn't remember either of them.

Granddad cleared his throat. 'If I were to give it to you, Olly, would you be willing to make me a promise?'

'Yes,' I said.

His reflection smiled at me. 'You don't know what it is yet.'

'Whatever. I don't care.'

'Very well. Suppose I ask you to promise that, if I give you this book, you won't read any other books about H. J. Martin; that you won't let him become an obsession, the way your father did.'

I stared at him. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but it wasn't that. I opened my mouth to ask why, but there was something about Granddad's face that made me stop.

'Will you, Olly?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Yes.'

His reflection searched my face with his eyes. 'You won't seek to know more about him? Once you've read that book, you'll stop? You give me your word?'

'Yes,' I said. 'But why? I thought you were worried about Dad.'

'I yes. Yes, I am.' But he didn't look at me, and if I hadn't known that Granddad didn't lie . . . 'You can be a much, much better man than your father, Oliver. I don't want you to end up like him. Neither do I want to be reminded of him. And as for H. J. Martin, I hardly knew him, but he was ' For a second his voice seemed to hang in the air, but then he started speaking again and I thought I'd imagined that silence, that fractional pause. 'He was simply a rather good-looking upper-class dilettante, who happened to be in a particular place at a particular time. He took in many people, but then we they were like children: eager for myths, for heroes, for easy answers. He was . . . not a good man.'

'Oh,' I said. 'Right.'