The flat occupied by himself and his mother was on the fourth floor; tradespeople in a hurry frequently left parcels below—also Madame Leclerc the concierge seldom troubled to carry up a letter unless she suspected it to contain bad news. The pause at the lodge was part of Eric’s routine, his words ritual. “Anything for me to take up, Madame Leclerc?” For once, a rare smile curved the thin lips. Employing all her fine Gallic gifts of drama, irony and concision— “Apparently yes, monsieur,” replied Madame Leclerc; and issuing burdened from her lodge planted in his arms a carry-cot containing a two-weeks-old infant. 2 Among all classic images of popular art none is more familiar, and touching, than that of the unmarried mother, babe in arms, at the door of her parents’ home. Typically the season is winter, the dwelling humble: a grandmother weeps, her husband gestures rebarbatively; a fourth character, canine or juvenile, may complete the composition—too familiar, indeed to require further detailing … But how rarely, if ever, is the central figure depicted as male—an unmarried father!
