Pauline, Teresa, Maurice and Luke are gathered together in the open-plan kitchen of Teresa’s cottage. Teresa is talking to Luke – the murmuring pigeon-talk of a mother to a baby – inconsequential chatter to an adult ear, a luminous revelation to the baby. ‘There we are …’ says Teresa. ‘Trousers on now. One leg … Other leg … Red trousers today. There we go.’ And Luke perceives that the sounds he hears are mysteriously linked to the things he sees. ‘Da,’ he says. ‘Da.’ Or perhaps ba, or doh. His sounds are not yet hitched to anything – to objects nor yet to vowels or consonants. They are simply sounds. The radio talks about an election in Italy, breaks off for a burst of music, talks now of slaughter in Rwanda. Pauline is reading a letter. She looks across at Teresa and says: ‘Jane has this flat in Venice for September. Maybe I’ll go there for a week.’ ‘Oh, right …’ says Teresa. ‘D’you want some banana, Luke? Mmmn … nana?’ Maurice is on the phone: ‘So we’ll see you both this weekend.
