So Rowan never knew his father, Nicky, although he’s always known his story and the story of his death. He used to make me tell it to him, over and over, when he was small; and I believed in those days that you should always answer children’s questions, tell them everything they want to know. (Well, not everything. There were hidden elements in the story which I held back.) Now, I wonder whether all that openness was healthy for Rowan. Perhaps there was something in the sad story which stuck to him, darkening his spirit and damaging his defences. He isn’t at all like Nicky in his personality. Nicky was sweet and happy and good; Rowan is a wonder but he isn’t any of those things. He does have Nicky’s eyes, though. I had a home birth in the commune, with all the women around me, and that’s what I saw as soon as they delivered Rowan up on to my stomach, slippery and bloody, before they’d even cut the cord: Nicky’s eyes staring up at me, dark as blueberries, singling me out, accusing me.
