The strawberry had fallen onto its side.
He picked it up with his fork and ate it.
Nobody had to congratulate him.
While we waited, Vincent asked whether Oliver wanted to change out of his dinner clothes.
The bow tie was bothering him.
He nodded.
Upstairs, his room looked wrong before anyone said why.
The top of the bookshelf was empty.
So was the hook where he kept his dressing gown.
His favorite blue jumper had disappeared from the chair.
The little framed photograph of both parents at his school concert was missing.
Vincent stopped in the doorway.
I had been off the premises for three hours that afternoon, collecting supplies and taking my own father to an appointment.
When I returned, Camille said Oliver had been helping tidy.
I believed enough of it not to check the room immediately.
Now the boy went to his wardrobe.
There were gaps between the hangers.
“I put the socks in,” he said.
Vincent knelt beside the suitcase we had brought up after them.
“Did you pack everything?”
“No.”
“Who helped?”
“Camille.”
He pointed to the teddy bear.
“I did him.”
His father opened the case.
School clothes.
Pajamas.
Underwear.
Two books.
The photograph wrapped inside a jumper.
A second pair of shoes.
A packet of name labels.
Vincent looked at the contents for a long time.
Then he asked, carefully:
“What were you told about coming back?”
Oliver sat on the bed.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
The little boy looked down.
“How quickly I learn to speak nicely.”
Vincent didn’t touch the clothes.
He looked at his son.
“What do you think speaking nicely means?”
Oliver pressed his palms into the mattress.
“Not doing the stuck bits.”
The room was very quiet.
“I try.”
