It was Icara’s father. ‘Hallo Dad,’ said Icara. ‘Well, hallo there,’ said Icara’s father, smiling upwards, ashing his cigarette. Cubby was taken aback. The judge! This was not what she had imagined – a man in shorts and a striped shirt, with reading glasses on his nose. Whenever she’d pictured Icara’s father, she’d seen someone noble in a white wig, dressed in a red silken robe, like a kimono. ‘This is Cubby,’ said Icara, gesturing. ‘Hello Cubby,’ said the judge. ‘Hello,’ said Cubby. Why was Icara’s father at home at four o’clock in the afternoon, anyway? Surely fathers only came home as the sun was setting, with their black hats and tired faces, taking off their coats, removing their cufflinks. It reminded Cubby of the fairy tale of the wild swans that Miss Renshaw had read them, although she had not been listening very closely.Wasn’t there something about how the brothers had to get back by twilight or they would change into swans? Something like that, thought Cubby, confused.
