It was how he had always seen it, all through the years from his earliest childhood memories. A nothing person with no roots, treated with false kindness, with a conscious air of you are no different to our own children. He was given the same things and opportunities as the others: schooling, outings, music lessons, swimming. He found swimming tiring, but he liked the music lessons which were at the house of a retired music teacher. The house smelt of biscuits and there were large pot plants obscuring the light from most of the windows, but Caley did not mind. He liked the patterns the music made and he was pleased when the teacher said he had a real talent. ‘You should practise every day,’ she said. ‘One hour every day.’ Caley did not say this would be difficult because there was no piano at home. Sometimes, in those years when he was growing up and becoming aware of the world, he felt an actual physical pain from the longing to know his own family—to be able to listen to their memories and histories.
