To Sutri and the Etruscan country to the north of Rome. To woods and sudden gorges, to brown cliffs punctuated with tombs, and hidden, bramble-ridden staircases. Jack was driving the first car, with friends (Howard and Gemma from London, staying the weekend) in the next. Newman was in the back of the leading car, an extra, something sterile but vaguely interesting, like an artefact from some remote archaeological period. There were also the two daughters, newly back from boarding school, seated on either side of him and on either side of the great divide of self-consciousness, the older one, Katz, consumed with blushes and silence whenever he spoke, the other, Claire, stark in her observation of his condition. ‘You don’t look like a priest,’ she said. ‘What do priests look like?’ ‘Priests are just ordinary people,’ Madeleine put in, glancing over the front seat at the girls. ‘No they’re not. Priests are boring.’ There was laughter from the adults. ‘Father Leo’s not boring.
